Ring of Fire
by ragna ayanami
Summary: 2nd installment. Sometimes to survive, one must stick together. Unfortunately, not everyone is of the same mind. One group, specifically one hunter and one marshal must overcome their differences to work together.
1. Old Faces, New Faces

**Note:** So, this is the second installment, which will cover the second season of TWD and a bit of in between 2 and 3. As I've said in the prequel, I will be combining the comics with the TV show. So I suggest you read the comics if you don't want to be confused. And if you've already read them, kudos to you.

Also, I urge you to read the prequel otherwise you won't understand some things.

I won't be covering the show and comics panel by panel, I will only focus on the parts where Samara is in and, occasionally, I will write some aspects of the show and comics that are important. If I wrote everything, I would be writing Bible length stories which will not be good for my typing fingers.

POV's are going to change regularly, from 1st person to 3rd.

Mildly important, I changed some aspects in the prequel. I changed Ezra's name to John for geography reasons, and to my detail-freak mortification, I mistaken Rick's Colt with a S&W. I have no idea how that escaped my notion, but it did.

Enjoy the second story!

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

Rick sighed tiredly.

He and the others had been driving the whole day with nothing in sight. This is all they had been doing for over a week since the CDC exploded—driving around the Atlanta outskirts, trying to find a place to settle. There had been a small museum a few days ago, but it turned out to be unlivable after two days.

They had decided to try their luck east after spotting a state park on the map used for hiking, golf and swimming. It would be perfect. There was shelter, fauna and a lake.

Rick really hoped that this would work out, because he didn't know how long the others would last if it didn't. They had become accustomed to living in one place with accessible water a few feet from them, and supplies just a few miles away, while he was used to always being on the move, foraging like a vagabond for food and such.

Shane kept egging him on what they should do, and while Lori didn't verbalize it, her eyes told him everything. She was starting to doubt.

People were tired and they were losing hope. After what happened at the CDC, morale was low. Even for him.

They needed some good news, just something to get their spirits up.

And the good news came in the form of a street sign.

**Wiltshire Estates**

**1 kilometer West**

* * *

"I think we've finally found something good."

Rick said as he peered thru the iron gate of the Wiltshire Estates. The others were scattered around, also looking thru the gate or sitting atop the cars looking over the brick wall.

They had decided to check out the estates. If it was livable then they would abandon their state park plans and remain.

Rick could practically feel the other's joy and relief at the prospect of a roof over their heads and an actual bed. He couldn't lie, he was also feeling it.

"Good? This is perfect!" Lori beamed at him. "We can start a new life here."

Rick smiled warmly at her and squeezed her hand in affection. They could finally stop moving and just take a breath. If everything went alright, this place could turn out to be their new home.

Shane walked towards them and his gaze stayed on their intertwined fingers for a second before sharply moving away. There was no sign on his face that matched the internal conflict he was experiencing.

"We should spread around. Check up some of the houses near the exit before it gets too dark." Shane said as he stopped near Rick, stoically avoiding making eye contact with Lori.

Rick let go of his wife's hand and returned to his duties as unofficial leader of the group. He blatantly ignored the tenseness that rose between Lori and Shane once the latter got close. That was a subject he did _not_ want to dwell on.

He walked a few steps ahead so everyone's attention was on him.

"Everyone, listen up. While it may look good on the outside, we don't know how abandoned this place really is. And it's going to be dark soon, so we need to search the area around the house. At least the first few. Don't go inside the houses."

"Carol and Lori, you stay with the kids in the RV. The others will break off into three groups. Daryl, you take Glenn. Shane, take Dale and Andrea. T-Dog, you're with me. Everyone fine with that?"

A few nods and grumbles were his answer.

"Alright. Stay sharp everyone and no guns unless necessary."

* * *

As the convoy stopped outside of the estates, a form stirred from inside the second story bedroom of one of the houses.

Having been abruptly awakened from the first decent dream in months, the woman jerked into a sitting. The gun that was loosely curled in her hand was brought eye level and pointed towards the phantom danger. Green eyes never stayed in one place as they inspected the entire room she was in. She found nothing but her furry companion scratching and growling at the window.

The woman rose to her feet with a groan and gazed out the window to see who or what interrupted her slumber.

_Gods, can't I ever get a break…_

She watched as a convoy consisted of a Winnebago and four cars stopped near the gates, and over a dozen people got out. The woman retrieved her binoculars and started inspecting each person. An older man was driving the RV with an Asian young adult as his co-pilot. Out of the RV exited a blonde woman and a sturdy African-American man. From the last car, a brawny man stepped out, and from the second, a woman with very short hair and a little blonde girl. The beat up truck's driver was a—

The woman grimaced. A redneck.

Unmistakable. Torn sleeves. Truck. Motorcycle. Crossbow. Dirty countenance.

_Just my fucking luck._

With a spat of disgust, she turned the binocular to the last car and its occupants. A woman, a boy and a man with a sheriff's ha—

Blink.

_No fucking way…_

But as she focused the binoculars to its maximum, it seemed the view in front of her wasn't a lie.

It was _him_. The Kentucky sheriff.

The woman remained frozen until a snort escaped from between her lips, and then another and then a short chuckle. Before she knew it, she was laughing like a madwoman. Immediately her hand covered her mouth, but that didn't stop some muffled snickers from coming out.

This was just _too_ funny. And not haha funny, just shocking funny. Like when you see something so unexpected, you can't believe that it happened right in front of you and you don't know how to respond appropriately to it, so that frenzied titter came out.

She simmered down her laugh to a quiet chortle.

"Well, shit…" Wide pale green eyes turned towards the Collie. "This is the last thing I expected to happen."

The dog wagged his tail happily.

Another snicker broke out.

"And I'm out of vodka."

* * *

The woman watched as the sheriff directed his group in searching the estates closest to the gates.

They didn't attempt to search inside the houses, and because of that she stayed where she was. She didn't want to make her presence known yet. Watching them was much more interesting.

Her astonishment settled down and now there was a cool calculating gleam in her eyes.

First of all, she couldn't believe that Grimes actually made it out of Atlanta _and_ found his family alive. And then found this location where she was. What were the chances of that happening? One in a million? Ten million? Too much.

A small part of her mused that maybe the small prayer had actually worked. The marshal immediately dismissed it, not believing in such things. This was just a very complicated, spider-like web coincidence. The sheriff had been just _extremely_ lucky.

Second, who were all these people? It was obvious Rick was leading them, but how did he come by them. His wife and son were most likely among the group when he found them, that was the only explanation she could come up with. No way had they been on their own, and then Rick found them, and _then_ found the others. His wife didn't look like someone that had been fighting tooth and nail to survive on her own with a child in tow. She still looked civil, and the boy was healthy enough.

The woman watched the others. The majority of them looked like regular folks, except for the redneck and the muscular white guy. Along with the oldest man in the group, Grimes and the muscular one were the only ones carrying guns. The redneck carried a crossbow which in Samara's opinion was a very good idea. Arrows didn't make deafening booms.

The sheriff, redneck and the brawny guy must be the force of the group.

Considering that the majority of the women remained with the vehicles, it probably meant that they were—for a lack of a better word—_women_. The blonde that joined the search group didn't seem interested enough in her task; she was just going with the motions.

The African-American, the old man and the Asian teen didn't look like much of a threat. Maybe the old man since he had a rifle in his hands, but he didn't seem the killer type.

And as for the kids…well, they were kids.

The marshal deeply considered her next actions. She had two options: expose herself or leave the estate. She could leave in the night. She had the means to see while they didn't. It would be easy to sneak along the back of the houses and exit thru the gate.

But what good will that do her. She'll be out in the open again with no transport. Maybe she could steal one of their cars and some of their rations.

…No, she couldn't leave. Not right now.

If she showed herself, then how would the sheriff react, she wondered. He wouldn't open fire, that's for sure. But he wouldn't greet her with a hug either. And the others…they would be cautious. And if the sheriff told them about the motel incident, then she wouldn't blame them for wanting nothing to do with her.

The woman sighed in defeat. She was out of food, water was pretty much extinct, had no vehicle and her body still hasn't recovered.

She was fucked.

These people could provide her with those items, the sheriff owed her that much. She already knew what she had to do, but that didn't mean she liked it or that she would do it quietly.

"Do you think we should welcome the sheriff into the neighborhood?" The marshal looked down at the dog at her feet.

The Collie's head cocked to the side.

"You're right. When they get settled in."

* * *

The group split into three small teams to search the estates. Daryl had been paired with Glenn, to his displeasure. It wasn't that he hated the Asian, it was just that he was too skittish for his liking.

In his opinion, staying in this boxed housing neighborhood was a mistake. They needed the light of day to fully search the area, not an hour left until dusk. He would have been more at ease if they had slept in the cars for the night and in the morning started their inspection. But the others had all wanted to sleep in a house, so that was what they were trying to do now.

The duo searched the backyard of a residence when Daryl saw something that made him pause.

Dog prints.

Crouching low, he inspected the faint tracks in the dirt that lead in the overgrown vegetation that was the backyard. Following them he came upon the bowl remains of the canine which was still fresh. As in a few hours only. Not months as it should be.

Daryl looked around for further signs of the dog. He didn't like this. His instincts flared, telling him that something was off.

"What are you doing?" Glenn asked from his place a few feet away from Daryl. He knew from experience to stay out of the hunter's way. Glenn watched as Daryl's eyes stayed glued to the ground.

Daryl didn't answer as he kept looking for other tracks. Human, preferably. If there was anyone else alive living here, then they needed to be alert.

Except for the same dog prints here and there, he found nothing to indicate that a human was here.

The hunter was still not placated.

Even if there were no people around, the dog was a danger. If the houses were empty of food and water, then the animal would be desperate. Desperate enough to attack them.

Walkers weren't enough, now they had to beware of dogs.

* * *

Rick and T-Dog made the last round around a house.

The estates seemed deserted. No walkers came out from between the houses and no sounds were heard except for the ones they made. The houses seemed in better or worse shape. Some had broken windows; most likely looters had passed thru and helped themselves to what was inside.

As shoddy as they were, they were good enough for now.

"Clear." T-Dog finally said.

Rick nodded and they returned to the road to join the others.

"What about you? All clear?" Rick addressed Shane once the man finished his search.

"As far as we can tell. I don't see anythin' anywhere near this area."

Glenn and Daryl approached, the perpetual frown on his visage deeper than ever. "There's a dog around."

"What?" Shane asked with eyebrows high.

Icy blue eyes slid towards the deputy with slight hostility. "A dog. The kind you put leashes on, less you want 'em to bite your hand off. You should know how that feels."

Shane glowered at the man. In moments like these, he really wished he could introduce the redneck's face with the butt of his shotgun.

"Alright, if this dog appears then we'll take care of it." Rick took a step between the two men. Tension had been flying high between those two and a fight breaking out again wouldn't help anyone. "I say we grab blankets and crash in one of these houses tonight. The windows on the second floor of this one seem to be fine." He pointed at the one he last inspected. "We should be pretty warm up there. Tomorrow we can start clearin' out the houses and giving people their own livin' space."

T-Dog nodded. "Sounds good enough to me."

"I agree with T-Dog." Dale added.

Glenn also agreed, while Andrea said nothing. She still wasn't keen on conversation, preferring to dwell on her brooding thoughts instead of the group's issues.

"All right then. Let's round up the others and get settled in."

* * *

Night fell quickly, shrouding the estates in complete darkness. The moon still hadn't showed itself from behind the cluster of clouds.

Daryl and T-Dog had taken the first shift. Daryl was on the ground level patrolling the road while T-Dog was on the roof of the house surveying the entire area.

It was quiet. _Extremely_ quiet.

It put Daryl on edge.

Two hours into his shift was when he heard a faint whine breaking the pervading silence. Crossbow ready, he listened further as the whine increased in volume. Daryl slowly moved towards the sound, mindful of his earlier discovery. He knew that this was the dog that had left the paw prints.

T-Dog having caught the man's movements, turned on his flashlight to illuminate the path in front of the hunter. What the beam of light revealed surprised him.

It was a limping dog.

Daryl cautiously approached the seemingly injured dog.

He didn't trust it one bit. But as the dog came closer, it didn't show any signs of aggression. It just limped towards him with its head lowered meekly and its tail between its legs.

Daryl crouched low and slinked his weapon over his shoulder. He didn't want to scare the mutt away.

"Come here." He said lowly, his Georgia drawl in a deep tenor.

The dog whined again, moving uncertainly.

"That's right, come here." This time it was gentler—at least as gentle as he could get.

As the dog stepped at arm's length, he immediately locked his fingers around its snout and one arm around the torso, trapping it under his arm. The dog started struggling frantically, not pleased with its confinement.

"Stop." Daryl's commanding tone along with the firm shake of its small body made the dog sag boneless. He still kept whimpering, only this time it was more fearful than in false pain.

"Hey man, what's going on?" T-Dog hissed from the roof. Even with the flashlight illuminating the man below, he still couldn't see what was happening since Daryl's form was blocking his sight.

The man in question ignored him as his attention was focused on his canine prisoner. This dog was too healthy to have been living on his own after all these months. There was no food in the house, no edible ones at least. He doubted the other houses were any different. But that didn't say much since dogs ate out of garbage. What did alert Daryl was the fact that the dog was well groomed. He still had that animal odor on him, but nothing very drastic, and his fur wasn't in tangles.

This mutt was being meticulously taken care of.

_Shit. Someone _is_ here._

* * *

As both lookouts were focused on the dog, they didn't notice the dark shape moving inelegantly across the street.

Once she reached the parallel house, the woman leaned against the wall and breathed in deeply. The pain shooting up her spine from the jog made her see multicolored spots in front of her eyes. With each passing day it became harder and harder to do much of any activity. With a grit of her teeth, she moved to the backyard and stayed close to the wall.

She walked as silently as possible until she reached the patio door of the intended house. With steady fingers she turned the knob and opened the door, wary of it squeaking. She had seen some of the group come out the back way and knew that it was open.

The woman stepped inside and carefully walked along the empty kitchen. Once in the hallway, she spotted one of the group sleeping on the living room couch. It was the brawny man. He was snoring evenly, sign of deep sleep. There was a shotgun leaning on the side of the couch. The marshal continued on up the stairs to the second story. There were three rooms upstairs. The Grimes family must be in the master bedroom.

She knew her way around because every last building in the Wiltshire Estates was built the same. They were cookie-cutter houses and such, it was easy to maneuver inside.

At the top of the stairs she headed left, the master being that way. She wasn't wrong in her assumption because when she opened the door that was where she found him.

A smirk spread over her lips.

She walked carefully towards the sheriff's side of the bed and picked up the Colt Python from the nightstand. It seems the sheriff hadn't parted with it yet.

The sight of Grimes sleeping so peacefully among his family almost made her abandon her mission. He was probably dead tired and giving him a scare right now would ruin the rest of his night.

Sadly, that did not deter the woman from her objective. It only enforced it.

She tapped him on the shoulder with his gun, but only got a grunt as a response. Moving the silver barrel to his temple, she pressed against it with more force.

That got a real reaction out of him.

Blue eyes popped open and it only took a second for him to realize that someone was standing over him. The darkness was too thick for him to see the person's features, but he did see a pair of goggles where the eyes should be. He knew immediately that this person wasn't part of the group.

—There was a stranger standing over him with a gun pressed to his temple.

His eyes widened in panic, his system going into a frenzy. When his arm shot out in reflex, his wrist was caught in a vice-like grip.

"Now now, you don't want to wake up your family, do you sheriff?"

That cut off the shout that had been seconds away from exploding into the room. Rick's alarmed expression fell and contorted into one of dumbfounded shock.

_That voice…_Even in a whisper, he still recognizedthat voice. Had been in a similar position with the owner of that voice not three weeks ago.

"I'm going to let go. Don't shout or punch me."

Her fingers left his wrist and she stepped back to give the sheriff his space. A quick glance at his family told her that they hadn't been disturbed from their slumber. They were deep sleepers.

The sheriff watched the figure with stupefaction. He didn't understand how this could be possible.

"Samara?"

The only word that the woman in question could match the face the sheriff was making was—

_Priceless…_

"Hello, sheriff. Long time no see."

* * *

Rick was still experiencing a sort of shell-shock as he stared at the marshal's form over him. He couldn't understand how she was here, at this time, in this room of all places. For a moment, he thought he was still asleep. Maybe this was all a dream…or a nightmare, depending on what would happen next.

Instead of asking her what she was doing here, the only thing he could utter was—

"Would it have killed you to wait till morning for this?"

Even if he couldn't see her smirk, he could feel it.

"As much as I would like to argue, shouldn't we do this where there's no chance for your family to wake up screaming their pretty little heads off?"

Rick turned towards his family, having forgotten that they were with him when Samara revealed herself. They were sleeping so serenely he couldn't spoil their sleep just because Samara decided to ruin his.

With a frustrated breath, he threw the cover off him and slid off the bed. Just then, a knock disturbed their reunion. Both turned towards the door, one with growing alarm of whoever was on the other side finding a stranger in here and creating a panic, the other with detached amusement to their situation.

"Grimes."

It was Daryl.

Rick took his Colt out of her hand and signaled her to stay put and not make a sound. She nodded and stepped back towards the wall to lean on. Before Rick could walk towards the door, Samara whispered.

"By the way, sheriff…Nice boxers."

Rick frowned and looked down at himself. Indeed, he was only in his T-shirt and underwear. With a sigh, he grabbed his pants and slid them on. The gun went at the back of his pants.

With one last frown at Samara, Rick opened the door and stepped out of the room. Daryl was in the corridor, crossbow over his shoulder and a camp lantern in his hand. He seemed agitated as he kept glancing down the stairs.

"Daryl, what is it?"

Daryl's narrowed eyes slid over to him. "I found the dog."

Alistair. Without a doubt. It seems Samara was still using him as a decoy.

"Is he still alive?" Lord, he hoped so. He didn't know if Samara would raise hell from behind the door if she heard that her canine companion was dead.

"Yeah. Locked it in the basement." He shifted again and his head turned towards the front door. "Someone's here, Grimes. The dog is too well taken care of to be on its own."

Yes, someone _was_ here. Just a wall over. "Have you seen anyone?"

He shook his head.

"Then, we'll deal with this in the morning. There's nothing we can do right now." He ran a hand thru his hair. How he wished this all could have happened after a good night's rest.

Daryl's perpetual frown deepened at the dismissive remark. "Look, we don't know how many people are out there. If they haven't showed themselves while we were searchin' the area, then they're probably waitin' for us to let our guard down."

"Everything's fine, Daryl." He cut him off. "Go back to your shift. I'll join you in a few minutes."

Daryl paused. The sheriff wasn't concerned at all. And not in an 'ignorance of possible dangers' sort of way, but in a knowing way. He knew something everyone else didn't.

Blue eyes slid toward the master bedroom. At first, he thought he heard whispers inside the room and just dismissed it as being his wife. When Grimes opened the door, Daryl saw that the rest of his family was fast asleep.

"Who were you talkin' to?"

"Lori."

"You wife's asleep."

"Daryl, just…Give me a few minutes." He stressed.

Daryl stood there unmoving. He might not like this, but he complied with the group's leader. The man had that resolute look in his eyes, the one you couldn't deter him from. Grimes wouldn't tell him anything right now.

With one last look, the hunter turned on his heel and descended the stairs.

Rick closed his eyes in tiredness. Could this night get any worse…?

Once Daryl exited the house, Samara opened the bedroom door and joined him.

"He wasn't happy."

"No, he wasn't…" He turned to her. "Did you hear everything?"

"Yeah. It seems Alistair is still alive." She said casually. Rick really didn't know how that dog hadn't developed PTSD by now.

He looked towards the bathroom at the end of the hall. It would do.

"Come on, we need to talk."

He took the lead and Samara followed. The marshal entered first. The bathroom had a small window that illuminated the room just enough to see each other's form. Samara took a seat on the closed-lit toilet. Closing the door gently behind him, he immediately turned on her, angry beyond belief.

"What the hell were you thinkin'?! Sneaking in here in the middle of the night. Do you realize the panic you could have stirred?"

"I was thinking of surprising you." She said pleasantly, but to Rick it sounded condescending. "And yes, I realize that all this could have gone tits up, but it didn't."

In that moment he felt all that adrenaline since waking up just drain from his body. The sheriff sagged against the sink with his hands covering his face. Really, this was all too much. He just wanted a good night's rest, nothing else.

Samara leaned against the filter of the toilet and waited until the sheriff retained his composure.

His hands left his face and he addressed the woman, his voice back to its normal calm Kentucky drawl. "You are seriously the most frustrating person I've ever met."

"Thank you."

_Don't start._

"Samara…_how_ are you here?"

"Well sheriff, I could ask you the same thing. But to answer your question, I have been here for over two days. You and your group are, in fact, intruding on my territory."

"Your territory…" Only she could think like that on an estate with so many houses. "Why didn't you come out when we were searchin' the area?"

"I wanted to see what I was up against. You have quite the group here, sheriff." She then took the goggles off and ruffled her hair, before addressing him again. Whatever cynicism or amusement she had was gone and replaced with sober curiosity. "How the hell did you escape Atlanta, Grimes?"

Rick recounted the event with the tank and horde of walkers eating the horse. Glenn finding him and helping him out. The others and the altercation with Merle which led to him cuffing the violent man to the roof of a building, him and Glenn wearing undead parts and walking thru a herd to reach a van. Rain challenging them, their escape with the van and leaving the redneck behind. And finally, finding his family safe in the Atlanta camp.

Samara listened to all this with a blank face. When he finished, she let out an astounded chortle.

"Sheriff, you have got to be one of the luckiest sons of bitches I've ever met."

Rick smiled faintly. "I guess you could see it that way."

"By the way, did you see that helicopter?"

His eyes widened. "So it was real…" _I knew I wasn't imagining it._ "Was it military?"

She shook her head. "Civilian. Why did you leave the camp? Assuming that's what you did."

"Walkers overwhelmed it."

There was that word again. "Is that what you call the undead now?"

"The others called them that. It stuck." Personally, he didn't care what they were called. Undead was undead. "We left for the CDC after."

"No shit…" She leaned forward, her curiosity sparking. "Did you get in?"

He nodded. "Met a scientist there, Jenner. He was the only one left, the others…they opted out."

Samara didn't care about a suicide rash, what was important was, "Is there a cure?"

"No." Rick's eyes lowered dejectedly. "The French came close to somethin' but communications went down. Jenner lost contact with everyone on the outside."

Samara hung her head and leaned back against the filter, her shoulders sagging. Even though she knew there were little to no chances of the world ever righting itself, it was final now. There was nothing to look forward to anymore.

_How depressing…_

"The CDC was on its last leg; the power was running out. Jenner tried to lock us all in. To spare us the pain, he said." Rick let out a dry grunt. The terror he felt of being locked in the CDC along with his family as it was about to blow sky high was more intense than any group of walkers. "We lost a woman there, Jacqui."

"We've been on the road since…"

Silence encompassed the small bathroom. Both deep in their thoughts. It was defeat they were feeling. Knowing that this was all that was going to be from now on. Running and hiding from the walkers until they got bit or killed some other way.

—It wasn't fair.

"We're still here." Rick broke the silence. "That has to count for something." He didn't know who he was trying to placate, him or her. Maybe both.

"Hmmm…" Samara stirred and raised her head. "But for how long?"

She rose from the toilet on heavy legs. "I'm going back to my house."

"Are you alright?" He watched her closely. He still could remember vividly that night at the motel, how she looked at the fire.

"Don't worry; I won't put a bullet thru my head. That would only be a waste…I just have a lot to think about."

He placed his hand on her shoulder in attempted comfort, but that only made the marshal stiffen and look at his appendage as if it offended her. An awkward atmosphere formed between them, and the sheriff took his hand off.

He should have known better.

"Right." He cleared his throat. "I'll show you where Alistair is." He opened the door and stepped out.

Samara placed the goggles over her eyes and followed the sheriff.

"Which house are you stayin' in?"

"Two houses down on the right."

They both quietly descended the stairs. At the ground level, Shane was still on the couch, not having moved one inch. There was a door beneath the stairs that lead to the basement. Rick opened it and not a second later Alistair ran out.

The dog pawed at its master, happy that he was out of the dark, dank basement. When he noticed Rick, he practically attacked the man's legs. Samara watched with faint amusement as the dog kept circling around the man, jumping on his lower half and trying to lick his hands.

"Glad to see you too, Alistair." Rick whispered after finally managing to calm the dog down. He wiped his fingers of the dog saliva on his pant leg. "Hope Samara hasn't worked you to the bone."

"He doesn't get to complain." Samara moved towards the back exit with Alistair.

Once outside, Rick stopped at the entry. The moon had finally come out and he could see Samara more clearly. "We're goin' to check the rest of the area in the morning. You want to join us?"

"Sure. It's not like I have anything better to do." She pointed towards the house. "Do they know about me?"

"I told them that you're the one that brought me to Atlanta."

Samara paused.

Rick leaned against the entrance wall. "I left out your private details along with _some_ aspects of our journey."

She knew instantly what exactly those aspects were. The motel.

"Good call." She stepped away. "Do me a favor sheriff, make sure that redneck doesn't put an arrow in me when I cross the street."

The man nodded and returned inside. _What a day…_

* * *

Daryl kept glancing at the door, tensely waiting for Grimes. The man was taking too long and he didn't like being kept in the dark. T-Dog had gone inside a few minutes ago, the sign of him ending his shift.

The hunter turned towards the house once he heard the door creak open. Before the sheriff could reach him, Daryl caught movement up ahead on the street and raised his crossbow. The moon had graciously showed herself during the space he left the house and now, so he had better view of the area. There were two forms crossing the street leisurely, a human and the not-quite-limping dog that he locked in the basement.

_Son of a bitch…_

Just as he was about to pull the trigger, a hand gripped the weapon and pushed it down.

"Don't shoot." The sheriff told him firmly.

Daryl wretched his crossbow away from the sheriff, annoyed at his actions.

"Who the hell is that?" He whispered vehemently as the figures disappeared between two houses.

Rick massaged his brow. Daryl hadn't heard about Samara since he hadn't been in the camp when he recounted to the others about the time since waking up from his coma and arriving in Atlanta.

"I guess I have some things to tell you."

* * *

**Foot Note:** This marks the end of the first chapter in 'Ring of Fire'.

I will be updating once a week. I hope that this time I'll keep to my word instead of uploading everything in the span of 3 days.


	2. Neighborhood Watch

**Note: **Daryl being Daryl, he'll let slip some ethnic slurs. It's going to happen in later chapters also. So anyone reading, don't get offended.

To **NRIASB** – Thank you, you are my first reviewer ever and the first fav/follower of this story! You get the metaphorical cookie jar. As for the word _thru _I understand it's an informal spelling of _through_, so it's not really a mistake.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

At the crack of dawn, Samara seated herself on the front porch stairs of her house. Alistair was at her feet, munching on an old bone he had found in the pantry. After her talk with the sheriff, Samara hadn't been able to shut her eyes for even ten minutes. The man's words kept circling around in her head like a broken record.

_There is no cure._

…At least not in America. This Jenner may have lost contact with the other continents but that didn't mean there still wasn't some scientist hunched over his research somewhere. There had to be. But even if there was, how long would it take for it to reach the other side of the globe. Months, years…decades. One thing for sure was that she probably will see no sign of a cure during the remainder of her possibly short life.

With a groan she leaned back, elbows resting on top of the stairs. Once the edge of the wooden planks made contact with her lower back, a throb of pain spread throughout her body. Even after three days she still felt a strong amount of pain and her movements were still too sluggish for her liking. If she had painkillers or at least a bag of ice it would have been so much better. But she didn't so she had to make do with what was at hand…which was nothing.

Samara looked over yonder at the lookouts. Somewhere in the night they changed, the old man was now atop the roof and the redneck came out again only after two hours of Grimes replacing him. He looked as restless as she felt. His head kept venturing to where she was ever since she came out of the house, but he never once attempted to get closer. The old man was the same; his binoculars always seemed to find her.

The marshal waited for Grimes to come after her. She wasn't about to just waltz in there despite her escapade last night. She didn't think the redneck would keep his finger from pulling the trigger.

Not a few minutes later the man in question exited the house, full sheriff gear on, and once he saw her, he headed towards her. Samara watched him as he got closer and once in range, the man froze. His eyes remained glued to her face. She couldn't blame him, she looked like hell. Her face was littered with cuts and her forehead had a deep gash.

When his legs finally unfroze, he approached her carefully. Alistair's tail started wagging, but he didn't move from his bone. Rick leaned over and ruffled the Collie's fur as he stopped at the foot of the stairs.

"What happened to you?"

"Lord of the flies, that's what happened." She grumbled in displeasure.

His frown deepened.

"Some teenagers ran me off the road after I shot one of their group three days ago. I _thought_ that he was going to shoot me." When she saw that shotgun pointed in her direction, she didn't think she just reacted. "Fact was, he was scared shitless of all the guns strapped to my body. The others didn't take too kindly to my actions and gave chase. One of them got lucky and perforated the back tire of the Cherokee with a shotgun."

Samara brought a hand to her forehead and gently prodded the cut. It still stung like a bitch.

"At the speed I was going I lost control of the car and rammed it into a tree. Blacked out once I hit the airbag. I think Alistair lost conscious too because I heard a howl before hearing my own skull crack." She remembered that when she regained consciousness the group was helping themselves to the trunk of her car. "They took everything except for the weapons I had on me and some other objects I had in the front of the car." Her food, water, clothing, medical supplies, camping gear and her duffle full of weapons were gone. The only things she had left were three handguns, one silencer, the machete, a first aid kit that was standard in all cars, binoculars and her night vision goggles. And the most important, her photos.

"Once I was conscious, I shot off a couple of rounds." She could clearly remember their fright once she came out of the car bloodied and growling like an animal. Their fear turned into full-blown panic once they were greeted with a shower of bullets. "They scurried off like vermin and I lost conscious on the pavement after."

"I don't know how long I was out, but when I woke up Alistair was trying to drag me off the road. There were six wendigos not twenty feet away from us and they were _very_ enthusiastic." She couldn't put in words the terror she felt once she saw them. She had barely been able to move, let alone see straight to target their heads.

Green eyes slid towards the dog. "Stupid dog actually thought he could move 65kg of body mass…"

Her tone was not reprimanding but grateful. If it hadn't been for him forcing her awake, she would be wendigo all-you-can-eat buffet.

Alistair perked up when he heard his name. His tail wagging more enthusiastically when Samara leaned forward and petted him kindly. She really hit the jackpot with him…

Rick seated himself beside her and listened further.

"I got up and sent Alistair to distract the wendigos so I could gather whatever valuable was left." For a tiny moment, she had hoped that the wendigos would catch him. If Alistair had died that afternoon, at least then the wendigos would have been too focused on eating him instead of chasing her.

But he hadn't died. The dog had stayed within a reasonable distance from them, always taunting them whenever their attention riveted back on Samara. It had worked for a little while.

"Once I picked up everything I needed, Alistair and I ran. Gods know how I was able to stay focused long enough to do any of that. I guess it was a testimony of human willpower." And a good portion of luck. Because at that point she had been in so much pain, her head so clouded and her limbs so stiff that all her movements came out jerky and disorganized.

"I don't remember clearly for how long we ran. I don't even know how I lost the wendigos or found this place." She looked around the estates, the early morning breeze brushing strands of her dark hair over her shoulders. "Once I saw the houses, the possibility of the estates being riddled with wendigos didn't even pass thru my mind, I just went right in."

The house she chose had been thankfully devoid of any corpsey guests. At the sight of a bed, she just placed a chair underneath the door knob and practically blacked out before she even hit the mattress.

"Woke up a day or so later, patched myself up as best as I could, scavenged some of the houses for food and that's it. I've been holed up here until you people came along."

Rick unfroze his raised eyebrows and let out an incredulous breath. _It seems we're both lucky_. "It seems every time I see you you're wounded."

She snorted. "I guess karma finally caught up to me and delivered one hell of a slap. I just can't believe I was bested by a bunch of brats barely out of puberty."

A strangled noise escaped the sheriff's throat and it wasn't a sarcastic one. Samara gave him an indignant look.

"Sorry." Rick settled his expression into a serious one. It had been a slip. The image of Samara, tied to a pole and encircled by a group of children in tattered clothing and war paint while holding spears over their heads, danced in his head. It wasn't his fault that his mind conjured something so ridiculous.

"I told you bloodshed doesn't help."

"…For that one instant you are correct." Her lower lip protruded and she sunk in her place like a scolded child.

Rick cast a look at the watch on his wrist. It was almost 7AM; the others should be waking up any moment. His gaze returned to the woman beside him—Samara looked sickly and the shadows underneath her eyes wore more prominent than ever.

"Have you eaten anythin'?"

Samara averted her eyes. "Ran out of food yesterday." She hated this. She was practically at the sheriff's mercy. It was an ugly feeling, worse than losing the majority of her belongings to those little shits.

"Come on. There's some canned tomato soup you can have."

"…I owe you one, Grimes."

Rick waved her gratitude off. "Think of it as me repayin' you for Atlanta. It's the least I can do now that we're neighbors."

Rising up, Rick noticed her poorly hidden wince. "How are you feelin'?"

"Like I was just run off the road and hit a tree." She said with a derisive grimace. Concussion, whiplash, stiff joints—the whole package. The head wound attenuated days ago, but the others were just getting worse. "You don't by any chance have any painkillers around?"

He shook his head.

"It was a long shot anyways…"

* * *

Daryl's eyes were trained on the foreign woman as they approached, his crossbow held readily in his hands. The woman was injured from the way her feet were dragging and as they got closer, he could see the scrapes and cuts littering her face.

His first impression of Samara was a mix one of distrust and caution. Daryl had grown up around enough dangerous individuals to spot one from a mile away and his instincts raked at him that there was one coming towards him right now. The woman had a handgun shoulder holster that seemed to have been personally modified to hold two firearms and several spare cartridges. There was another handgun on her right thigh encased in a holster and a machete at her belt. Her hands never strayed too far from the weapons on the lower half of her body, and coupled with the way her eyes surveyed the area showed that she was cautious even among seemingly safe surroundings. There was a hardened glint in those pale green eyes that spread throughout her features.

The marshal, as Rick revealed, had two large tattoos on her upper arms. They were old from the way the colors were faintly washed out. Daryl's eyebrow almost shot up when he saw the necklace around her russet throat—a turquoise beaded one with several large aged fangs hanging from it. From the size of them he would venture they once belonged to either a bear or a mountain lion, if they were real.

Her clothing weren't in any better condition that her face, the dark olive T-shirt sported rips and mud patches were more concentrated on the lower portion of her faded navy jeans. Her cherry-brown cowboy boots must have seen better days and the fingerless gloves on her hands were tattered and in need of serious repair.

Overall, she looked like she just escaped Hell.

Rick and the woman stopped just near Dixon and Rick motioned towards the woman. "Daryl, this is Samara. Samara, Daryl Dixon."

The woman was not thrilled with Daryl judging from the faint scowl that broke her apathy.

—The feeling was mutual.

"And the dog is Alistair."

Alistair, as he was called, avoided Daryl altogether. He probably still remembered the roughhousing from last night.

"They're stayin' then?" He drawled in displeasure. At Rick's nod, the hunter snorted. "Just what we need, two extra mouths to feed."

"Don't worry, if you run out of food I'm sure you there's a rat around that you can prey on." Samara smiled sharply, her eyes cutting him like knives. "Just remember to cook it first."

Silence encompassed the trio.

Rick really should have seen this coming. The marshal wasn't someone that tolerated attacks on her person—verbal or otherwise—and neither was Daryl. And from the manner she glowered at him from even before introducing them, he knew there was going to be friction between these two.

Daryl's expression remained unchanged, but his eyes said everything. His arctic blues darkened with a myriad of emotions that were nowhere near positive. They slid towards Rick with an intensity that broached on hostility. The man was containing himself from lashing out judging from his harsh grip on the crossbow.

"You best keep her away from me, Grimes. Otherwise, your _friend_ ain't gonna last long." With one last glare he turned back to his patrol, showing his back as if the woman was no more threatening than a box of kittens.

Rick massaged his brow. Not a minute in meeting one of the group and Samara already pissed someone off. This was a _fantastic_ start.

He nudged her forward with a bit more force than usual making her blatant scowl turn on him. Once inside the house, they headed towards the kitchen. Shane wasn't on the couch anymore and neither was the shotgun. Rick saw that the back door was open, the most likely location of the deputy.

He motioned to Samara to sit at the table as he searched the food duffle for some canned goods for her. The dog crawled underneath the table and laid down on the cool tiles having already eaten his meal.

"Samara, if we're goin' to live together here, I suggest you don't antagonize the others. I'm more tolerant than they are." Plus, after spending days with her, he was used to her callous character. Partially because he'd already seen the worst she could do and partially because he knew better than to rise to her jeers since they seemed to entertain her.

"Here." He placed a can of tomato soup in front of her and the marshal wasted no time digging into it. Rick sat in the chair beside her and continued. "Look, I'm not tellin' you what to do. I only need to know that I can trust you not to cause problems. My family has gone thru enough. You creatin' more is not somethin' I will put up with."

Samara paused in her eating. Was he threatening her? "What are you going to do, sheriff? Force me out?"

Rick remained silent as he thought on his reply. Either way, his no nonsense expression said it all. "I don't think you want me to answer that."

Samara's lips quirked wryly. My my, the sheriff was finally starting to learn.

"You've changed…"

"Like you said, we have to adapt, right?"

"I think I'm starting to like you, sheriff." Her smirk grew. "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad one."

_I don't know either._ As she was more preoccupied with chugging the soup down her throat, Rick's attention was drawn to her tattooed arms. When they had rested at the RV park he had noticed ink on her arms, but coupled with the slight dizziness and the fading sun he hadn't caught a good glimpse. On her right was a giant dreamcatcher that encompassed her upper arm with smaller dreamcatchers, feathers, bones and marbles hanging from the main one; he even saw a few small skulls in there. On her right arm was a henna band circled around the middle of her upper arm. It was as wide as his middle finger.

He wondered if marshals were allowed to have tattoos because he knew that police officers could only have a minimum and they had to be somewhere where civilians couldn't see them, lest they scare them off or get ridiculed. An officer with full-sleeve tattoos was something frowned upon. The principle probably applied to her as well; Rick doubted she wore tank-tops or T-shirts while on the job.

His eyes slid to her shoulder when it twitched. That's right…she had been injured before the accident. "How's your shoulder?"

She swallowed the soup's contents and licked her tomato juice covered lips. "It's fine. Healed up a week ago. I still get phantom pains, but nothing serious." Besides, the soreness her whole body was experiencing overshadowed any other injury.

Their conversation was interrupted when Shane entered the kitchen. He froze once he saw Rick sitting at the table with a foreign woman eating _their_ food.

"What the—Who the hell is this?"

Samara swallowed the thick liquid. "Hmm…this is going to be fun."

* * *

Samara was seated at the end of the table facing the entrance of the kitchen and was now eyeing the occupants of the room with moderate interest, having finished her breakfast a while ago. Everyone was present, even the hunter. Half of them were watching her openly and the other half consisted of Daryl, Lori and Shane were subtlety giving her suspicious looks.

_Maybe it's because of the guns…or the face._

Alistair had come out from underneath the table once the prospect of human kindness showed itself and was currently being cooed over by the two children. He seemed to be enjoying the attention that he had been deprived of for almost two months and a half.

Rick was facing the group and explaining her presence here. Initially, Rick introduced Samara to everyone. Shane Walsh was the sheriff's best friend and former deputy, Dale Horvath was the old man, Andrea the blonde woman, Carol Peletier was the other mother of the group and Sophia was her daughter, T-Dog was the African-American, Glenn was the Asian young man and she already knew who Grimes' family and the hunter were. Rick had introduced her as the woman that brought him to Atlanta, and Samara could see some of their faces light up with recognition. It alerted her when Rick's friend, Shane, was now regarding her guardedly and with a knowing light, only this knowledge seemed to darken his mood and tighten his grip on the shotgun.

Samara felt a disapproving twitch in her fingers. Had the sheriff revealed more to him than the others?

"Samara is livin' two houses down and I expect that you all respect that. There is enough room for all of us here, so there shouldn't be any problems. Right?"

Nods and verbal responses were his answers.

After, he told them about the accident and how Samara wandered over here. The marshal's finger curled into a fist underneath the table as she spotted several looks of sympathy. She didn't want their damn pity! They would feel otherwise if they knew how easy it would have been for her to kill them while they slept.

"Samara will be joining us in searchin' the houses."

"If you've been here for the past two days why haven't you looked around?" Shane addressed her from his position against the kitchen counter.

"I wasn't exactly in any state to investigate." She thought that was pretty obvious. Between a concussion and spasming muscles, leaving the bed was a nightmare she did not attempt. She had been like a beached whale, twitching everywhere.

"That doesn't matter, we're gonna do it today." Rick interrupted. "As I've said last night, we're gonna split into groups and search through as many houses as we can. We'll be lookin' for canned goods and supplies, and more importantly, makin' sure this place is secure and that no walkers are inside like there were in this one."

"This is gonna be dangerous so keep your eyes open and stay alert. Keep in mind that we'll be spreadin' out into these houses after we secure them, so look them over. If you see one you like, keep it in mind."

Samara watched the sheriff with a faint smirk. He really took his role as leader seriously.

"Carol, you will remain here with the kids."

"Can't I help?" Carl asked with hopeful intonation from his position next to Alistair.

Lori placed her hand firmly atop his head. "Absolutely not."

"Not this time, Carl." His father smiled at him. He would never in his right mind let his son wander on unsecure grounds.

He returned his attention to the others. "Just like yesterday, we'll divide into three teams. Myself, Lori and T-Dog will be one team. Shane, Dale and Andrea will be another. And the last team will be Daryl, Glenn and Samara."

Once Samara heard that she would be placed with the hillbilly, all semblance of indifference was lost. Before she could even protest, Rick continued.

"Whatever differences you might have, you put them aside today. We all need to be focused right now." That was specifically addressed to her. "Sound good?"

With a reluctant grunt, she conceded. Fine, she could be civil…for now.

"Alright. I'm gonna get guns for those that don't already have one from the RV. Everyone else spread out. I'll meet you halfway."

* * *

Rick exited the RV with the gun duffle in hand. There were enough handguns for the search parties.

The sheriff's mind reeled back to Samara. He was neither thrilled nor disgruntled to have her here. Those feelings of treading on a thin wire that he associated with her returned, and he could only hope that Samara would not do anything drastic like last time. That was his primary concern in regards to her.

Another fear bloomed inside him, one that had been brewing from last night. The marshal had too easily slipped into their house and if she had wanted to, she could have killed them before anyone understood what was going on and run off with their belongings. She had every reason to, she had no supplies, no transport and no protection, and they had it all. If Rick hadn't met her on that farmhouse, his fears might have become real and nobody could say that his worries were unjustified. He might have an outline of the marshal's values and personality, but she was still capable of switching tactics if they contributed to her survival. And that made Rick's stomach clench nauseatingly.

Rick loathed unpredictability, especially now in this new world. He had to be extra careful with her. Thoughts of asking Shane to also keep watch on her swam thru his head when something caught his eye. He didn't spot it when the group first arrived here because of the overgrown shrubbery hiding it and the fading sun, but there was definitely a sign underneath the plants.

As Rick moved the bush to the side, his hand froze. Not only his hand, but his entire being.

Blue eyes widen in primitive terror.

On the dirtied white board was written in red paint (_blood?_)—

_**All dead **_

_**Do not enter**_

"Oh…shit."

* * *

Samara, Alistair, Daryl and Glenn took the initiative and walked further up the street. Shane's team took the eastern side of the lane, while Rick's team the western. For now, the trio and animal was inspecting the front yards of the houses.

Whenever Samara wasn't scrutinizing the residences, she was watching the hunter. Every move he made attracted her undivided attention. She didn't trust him, plain and simple. All her instincts flared into 'fight or flight' mode around him. Personal and professional experience taught her to be wary of his kind.

Why the hell did Grimes pair her off with him? A blind man could see that she did not want to be around this man and yet, he still did it. If he believed that in this way she would come to some understanding with the hunter, then he was dead wrong. She had no intention of doing that.

Daryl felt probing eyes stare into his back. This wasn't the first time someone ogled him like a zoo animal or a possible threat. He didn't like it one bit and the urge to snap at the woman was just sizzling on his tongue.

"So, Samara…" Glenn caught the woman's attention. "Which tribe did you belong to?"

Her eyebrows rose. "Tribe?" What was this, the Wild West?

"Uh…nation?" He didn't want to offend her or anything. While she didn't have that 'I'll-beat-you-bloody-if-you-speak-to-me' air around her like Daryl, there was still an intensity to her.

"The hell does it matter what _tribe_ she's from, chinaman?" Daryl grunted from a few feet in front of the pair.

Samara gave the hunter a flat look and proceeded to answer the youngest of the three just to aggravate the redneck. "I'm Navajo."

Glenn gave Daryl a quick look before giving her a wry smile. "I'm Korean by the way."

"Good for you." She had thought that, that would be the end of their interaction, but Glenn kept giving her looks and opening his mouth then closing it halfway. It didn't take long for her to find it tiresome. "What?"

"Cool tattoos." He motioned to her arms with a smirk. "I always thought about getting one, but…recent events put a stop to that." As in, walkers eating the people working at the parlors. "Do they have any meaning?"

"Not really." Her hand unconsciously ghosted over the dreamcatcher. This one had been a product of her rebellious youth, something to piss her father off with. And it worked _mightily_. The henna band had been added many years later in India as a sign of marriage and hopeful fertility. Samara admitted it freely; she was a sucker for history, old traditions and cultures.

Glenn's voice brought her out of her quiet musings when he pointed to her neck, "Are those real fangs?"

She nodded. "Grizzly."

Daryl turned his head sideways and gave her a strange glance.

"Seriously?" Glenn's eyes widened and he smiled like a child on a sugar rush. "Did you fight one for them?"

She snorted. "Hell no. My five times great grandfather fought one and survived, minus an arm, an eye and an ear. Took its teeth as a trophy."

"Only you redskins are crazy enough to tackle a damn bear." Daryl shook his head.

Samara's eyebrow twitched.

"Well, I think that's awesome." Glenn said as he looked between the houses. "The only heirloom my family ever had was a grandfather clock. I hated it when I was a kid. It always kept me up at night."

Just when Samara thought he was done interrogating her—

"Is Alistair yours?"

"No." She sighed. "I found him a month and a half ago."

Glenn smiled at the canine beside him. He always favored dogs over any other animal. This was the first time in he didn't know how long he actually saw one. "He's one of those sheep dogs, right?"

"He was once, now he's a wendigo herder."

Daryl snorted under his breath at her term for the walkers.

"Wendigo?" Glenn's expression contorted in confusion.

"They're human eatin' monsters in their legends." Daryl answered.

Samara was rather surprised the redneck knew what a wendigo was. He didn't look like someone that graduated high school, let alone know about some Native American legend.

"I like walker better. It's got a ring to it." Glenn mused as he readjusted his cap. "So what does Alistair do?"

At this point, his questions were really starting to irritate Samara. She was here to search for undead, not pour out her life story.

"He acts as a decoy and bait." An idea then popped into her head, one that would guarantee silence. "He's also useful in other areas."

"Which are?" Glenn paused in his walk when the woman did. Her voice got strange all of the sudden. Smooth and low, almost purring.

Samara had a strange glint shining in her green eyes. "Well, if I ever run out of food, Alistair will come in handy." She took a slow step towards him. "But now that all you people are here, I guess he's safe." And another. "That is until the meat finally runs out."

"Meat?" His voice came out shakier that he would have liked. When the realization of what she was alluding to dawned on him, he took a step back, eyes wide. "Uh…I-I'm going to…go up ahead."

Samara snickered as Glenn almost tripped as he jogged past the hunter.

Daryl gave the young man an indiscernible look and then turned on the most likely suspect of this strange happening. "I've never seen the chinaman run that fast without a walker on his ass. What you tell him?"

She shrugged casually. "My plans on an all meat diet."

Before Daryl could ask what she meant, a booming sound made the four of them freeze in their tracks. They turned to where the source of the gun noise came from.

"Don't shoot! Don't fire guns!" Rick's distant panicked voice accompanied the gunshot. He was a small dot down the street that was approaching at a rapid pace.

Not four seconds later another round echoed throughout the empty street, this one louder than the first.

"Shit!" Daryl scowled. "Don't these people ever listen to a fuckin' word?"

"What do you think happened?" Glenn stepped back to where Daryl was. He licked his dry lips nervously as his fingers kept clenching around the baseball bat. They couldn't see what was going on because they were a fair distance away from the rest and because the gunshot came from inside a house. The small team watched as Lori and T-Dog ran across the street to meet with the sheriff.

"Wendigos, most likely." Samara was also fuming. _Don't these people realize that now every corpse in the estates will come out of hiding and follow that sound?_

"Fuckin' Shane." The hunter spat on the ground. "That's his shotgun. Idiot must've seen a walker and gone Gung-Ho on it."

Samara brought a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. Not even an hour in meeting the group and she was already regretting not stealing a car and leaving in the middle of the night. "Gods, you people are stupid."

The hunter turned his angry gaze on her. "Don't put me in the same category as that asshole, squaw."

"Squaw?" A rather un-ladylike snort left her lips. "That's the best you can do, you inbred hillbilly?"

"What the hell crawled up your ass, woman?"

"Umm…guys?" Glenn's tone waivered into transparent fear.

Neither Daryl nor Samara heard him. Their ears and eyes were only for each other.

"You're my problem, redneck!" She snarled. All that anger from her recent misfortune was starting to surface having found a good target to let it out on. It didn't matter if it wasn't this man's fault. The fatigue experienced from the accident had made her quite short-tempered which only worsened the situation. "Every damn turn I make, morons like you come out of the woodwork and fuck it all up."

When Alistair—whimpering frantically—pawed her leg with vigor, Samara pushed him away with her foot.

"You crazy bitch." Daryl was practically towering over her despite their almost identical height. "How is it my fault? Did you see me fire a fuckin' gun?"

"Hey!" Glenn shouted at both of them, finally catching their attention.

"What!" Both shouted at the same time, scowls trained on the Asian man.

"Run!" Glenn shot past them back towards the others, Alistair on his tail.

Samara and Daryl watched with wide eyes how thirty undead walked out from between and inside the houses out into the open. They all had their milky ravenous eyes on them. Not even a heartbeat passed that they all began marching towards them, beyond excited at seeing the first fresh meal in months.

"Fuck me." Samara whispered hoarsely as she skittered back and ran.

Daryl was of the same mind and passed her in his haste.

Samara's panic increased because running wasn't an activity that she was able to accomplish successfully at this point. The muscles on her lower half were working madly, making her back throb in excruciating pain.

_Oh gods!_

It wasn't just the wendigos at her back that she was worried about now but the ones coming from the sides and those in front.

"Everyone we need to get out of here!" Rick shouted. He was shooting walkers as he ran. "Get everyone in the cars! T-Dog, Lori get Carol and the kids!"

Shane, Dale and Andrea had already come out of the house and when they saw the walkers, they ran. Dale and Shane opened fire, no longer caring about making noise. It wasn't like it mattered anymore.

Lori and T-Dog reached the house by now and Glenn along with Alistair almost reached them.

"Daryl, help Samara!" Rick yelled thru the gunshots once he saw how far the marshal was from everyone. The walkers were just a few meters away from her and gaining.

Daryl looked behind him and gritted his teeth when he saw the woman lagging, pain marring her expression. Her running was a mix between a power jog and a limp, just a little bit faster than the walkers shamble.

"What the hell are you doin'?! Run!"

"I can't!" She yelled roughly as she shot off a couple of rounds into the wendigos behind her.

"Fuck!" He spat and ran back. As much as every instinct in his body was screaming at him to leave her behind, he couldn't. She was a hot-tempered asshole, but he couldn't leave her to get eaten by walkers just because of that. One of the main differences between Daryl and his older brother had been a sense of decency towards women. Even with all those guns on her, she was still female and in his mind, that made her the weaker of both sexes.

Not to mention it would put him at odds with the sheriff if his _friend_ died.

Daryl let loose an arrow into the nearest walker and grabbed the woman's arm. If he had to drag her all the way to the cars he would, wounded as she was.

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ, stop!" She screeched at the added pain the man was causing her by forcing her to run faster than her body allowed.

"We stop, we're both dead! So shut up and run!"

Rick and Shane remained behind and were picking off the walkers closer to the duo. Once they reached them, the sheriff and deputy covered them as they ran.

T-Dog, Lori, Carol and the kids were already at the cars and shouting to the others to move faster. Dale, Glenn, Alistair and Andrea were halfway there, the older man shooting the stragglers as he ran, paving a clean way for the men and Samara.

There were too many walkers. Another twenty must have joined while everyone was running.

"Move!" Rick yelled. Samara was moving too slow and the walkers were not far behind.

"I'm trying!" Samara yelled back. Her vision was swimming and her head felt heavy. If Daryl wasn't holding onto her so firmly, she would have collapsed by now.

"Someone pick her up already and let's get the hell out of here!" Shane shouted as the head of a walker exploded from the force of his shotgun, spraying brain and blood on the other undead. The downed body made several walkers trip over it, creating a domino effect.

Daryl slung his crossbow over his shoulder and wasted no time in picking the woman up into a fireman's carry. Now that she was finally off the pavement, they could all move faster, but it left him wholly unprotected. If any walkers appeared in front of the hunter, he wouldn't be able to grab his crossbow or any other weapon.

"Goddammit!" The marshal cursed at her predicament. This was just _embarrassing_. She wasn't a fucking toddler to be manhandled like this!

A car engine suddenly rumbled thru the street and the iron gates flew open as Shane's car made contact with them. T-Dog was behind the wheel, driving right into the walkers, mowing down as many as he could. This provided the others with enough time to reach the convoy safely.

"Get in the cars and go!"

Rick departed from the group to his respective car while Shane headed for Carol's car and Daryl for his truck. He lowered the woman on the ground and opened the passenger side. With a harsh shove he threw her into the car, ignoring her howl of pain and the foul curses directed at him. He really couldn't give a shit what she called him right now. Daryl climbed into the driver seat and started the engine. Sweat was pouring down his forehead in abundance.

T-Dog was turning the car over and heading back towards the convoy. The front side of the car was splattered with blackish blood and bits of rotten flesh, the windshield was cracked and the bumper was dragging on the concrete, creating sizzling sparks.

The sheriff's car was already speeding down the road and the RV was also in motion. Carol's car was not far behind and T-Dog was just a few seconds from reaching the street. The truck's engine came to life and Daryl wasted no time in putting the old car in motion. The occupants of the truck jerked with the abrupt movement and Samara almost hit her head on the dashboard.

"Watch what you're doing, you dick." She grumbled disconnectedly.

"Shut up." Daryl growled at her.

The convoy reached the highway and veered left. It didn't really matter which way they were heading as long as it was far away from the Wiltshire Estates.

Once the car was steady, Samara swayed in her seat. Her vision at this point was similar to a kaleidoscope; there wasn't anything that she was able to focus on properly, colors all blended like a painter's pallet. A growing churning feeling was left in her stomach as the adrenaline drained from her body. Surprisingly, she couldn't feel the soreness in her muscles anymore.

With a groan, the woman grabbed the handle for the side window and tried to shift it. The window stopped a few inches in.

An anxious whimper escaped from between her lips. "Stop the car."

"Why?" Daryl gave her a look and saw the paleness on her face.

"Just stop the fucking car!" A hand came up and covered her mouth. Her cheeks puffed out and he could hear a bubbling heave in her throat.

With a disgusted grimace, Daryl did as told. He would rather not let this happen inside his truck.

With frenzied jerks, Samara opened the side door and hurled her breakfast on the warm concrete.

The cars in front slowed to a stop once they realized that Daryl's truck wasn't following anymore. T-Dog having caught up from behind, stopped beside Daryl's window.

"Why'd you stop?" There was a wheeze to his voice. The events of today wore him out. And the fact that he drove head on into a pile of walkers left him weak in his seat.

Daryl motioned towards the vomiting woman. T-Dog grimaced at the guttural sounds that were coming out of her.

"She didn't get bit, did she?"

"No. Just go on ahead, we'll follow."

"Alright, man. If you're sure." T-Dog drove forward to inform the others of the temporary delay.

The marshal finally straightened out after a few minutes of dry heaving and closed the door. Small chunks of tomato were dripping down her hair ends and the stinging stench of vomit encompassed the interior of the truck. Daryl scooted closer to the door in hopes of getting away from the foul odor.

"Are you still here?" He asked as he lowered the window and stuck his head out. The woman was wavering like a sheet in the wind and she didn't seem all that aware of her surroundings.

Half-closed pale green eyes slid towards him. The hunter was barely distinguishable in her vision. Dark eyebrows rose up in faint surprise.

"I forgot…my night-vision…goggles."

Samara's eyes rolled back into her head and Daryl didn't prevent her forehead from making contact with the dashboard.

Daryl's frowning visage turned back towards the road.

_Jesus Christ…If she's dead, this is not my fault._

* * *

_**Foot Note:** Reviews and constructive criticism is always welcomed._


	3. Amber Alert

**Note: **Updating has taken a while, I know. I've been hit with a loss of motivation to write. Hope it passes soon. I've also had doubts as to whether to continue this story or not at least from this angle. But now that I've started it, I'm gonna finish it, dammit.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

"Ugh…"

A low groan resounded in the interior of the RV as Samara shifted in her post-slumber haze. Her head felt like a toddler was banging a rubber hammer against it in annoying childish glee. Her limbs were nowhere near better; like moving thru deep water.

There was something soft and hairy placed between the juncture of her neck and once a green eye cracked open, she came face to face with Alistair's black and white fur.

Another groan escaped her lips, this time more disgruntled than sore. This was one of the reasons she hated animals, they all stank. She turned on her side so that the dog could slide off her body. Once Alistair felt movement, he sprang to his feet and started licking the woman's face. In response, Samara roughly pushed the dog away.

"Enough." With stiff movements, she rose to a sitting position. The pain in her lower back and neck was a muted discomfort now. Either she was on some grade A painkillers or someone ripped out her nerve endings.

The RV seemed to be empty of any noise or inhabitants. She and the dog were alone. Throwing the cover off, Samara stood on unsteady legs. Another silent throb sparked in her lower back, but it was ignorable. Definitely drugs.

Her weapons were gone from her body and pilled on the small kitchen table along with a bottle of water and candy bar. The stroll towards them felt like crossing the Great Mohave Desert. Alistair trotted after her as lively as ever; events for him probably came and went without much ado.

Unscrewing the cap, she drank from the bottle, careful not to chug it down in one go. The last thing she needed was to hurl ag—

Samara winced. She finally remembered what happened before blacking out, i.e. vomiting right in front of the redneck like a drunken socialite after a full night of debauchery. Gods, she must have looked like quite the walking catastrophe. Smelling her hair, she sensed no traces of vomit. Someone washed it because it was slightly damp. As for her breath…ugh. Someone was in dire need of some toothpaste.

Samara then remembered the reason for blacking out. Her fingers brushed her brow with a hiss, feeling a tender lump on the center of her forehead.

_Just fucking great, another wound on my face_. _It's not enough that I look like Edward Scissor-Hands, now I have to look like a battered housewife._

With an irritated sigh, she strapped the gun holsters back on and headed for the exit. She's had enough of sleeping and the RV was making her claustrophobic. Opening the door, the marshal recoiled as the afternoon light burned her retinas. Bringing her arm up to shield her eyes, she peered around to assess the situation—the cars were parked in a line in the middle of the road and the group was gathered near the hood of the sheriff's car. Trees covered both sides of the street that went on for miles back and forth.

"Samara, are you alright?" A gentle male voice came from above.

Looking up, the woman spotted Dale on top of the RV, binoculars in hand and rifle over his shoulder. His face didn't hide the concern at her present state.

"Peachy." She grumbled sardonically and gave a side nod. "Are they conveying without you?"

"Someone has to watch the road."

"How long was I out?"

Dale checked his wristwatch. "Almost six hours. It's near 2PM."

She sighed. Five hours was too much. Her eyes then sharpened having remembered the cause of their sudden departure. "You mind telling me what the hell happened back at the estates?"

Dale shifted and an embarrassed look passed over his face.

"When we searched the house a walker grabbed Andrea from behind by the shirt. I didn't think, I just reacted. Then another walker came out and Shane opened fire." He gave her a meek smile. "It was my fault."

The marshal gave the blonde a quick glance before her eyes settled back on Dale. It was hard not to notice the way he was always around the woman like a loyal guard dog.

"Are you related to her?"

His bushy brows rose. "Andrea? No."

"Are you in love with her?" She deadpanned. The fact that she had to spit that out made her feel childish.

"What?" His eyes widened in surprise. "No! I just care for her. She and her younger sister were the first people I met when I came to Atlanta. Picked them off the side of the road when their car broke down."

_Ah, so he's just being the overprotective grandfather._

"I get it." Samara walked slowly towards the group. "I'm going to see what their deciding."

Somewhere between getting out of the RV and talking to Dale, the others must have noticed her. Samara could see that Alistair decided to join the rest and was being doted over by the little girl—Samara sort of forgot her name.

Rick was already halfway to meeting her. "You shouldn't be up."

Samara ignored him in favor of her own question. "What am I on? Because I feel comfortably numb."

"Doxycycline."

The name didn't sound familiar to her. She leaned on the side of Carol's car. "I thought you didn't have any painkillers."

"Daryl had."

_Oh great, now I'm in the redneck's debt_. Twice, actually. He was the one that came back after her and then carried her off like a dead deer over his shoulders.

Samara nodded and tried to walk again, only to pause when her steps came out disorganized. She gave the sheriff a flat look. "I'm too doped up to move straight."

Rick read between the lines and mentally rolled his eyes. It wouldn't kill her to _straightforwardly_ ask for help, he thought. With her arm over his shoulder, they joined the others at a steady pace.

"You alright, Samara?" Glenn asked with a worried pitch as the duo reached them.

_First the old man, then Grimes and now Glenn. What was with all the concern?_

She nodded as Rick placed her on the front seat of his car. The man moved back to his original place at the center of the group. Samara finally saw what everyone was gathered around—a map on the hood. The marshal assessed every person and found them as expected. They were either dead tired or dejected, and after that fiasco she couldn't blame them. Her gaze landed last on the hunter, who was leaning against the bed of his truck. Daryl caught her stare and immediately broke it, his frown deepening further.

Samara will thank him some other time, preferably when there were no people around to witness it.

"As I said, we're gonna to head for Fort Benning." Rick leaned over the map as his finger traced highway 85 all the way to Columbus. "We've already passed Atlanta, so that means we have around 100 miles left."

Samara shook her head to dispel the haziness. _Wait?_ _Fort Benning?_ "…That's not a good idea."

"Why?" Shane gaze rose from the map and eyed her sharply.

"Because if the fort isn't already overwhelmed by wendigos then it's filled with soldiers." And that was positively frightening.

"I don't understand. Isn't that a good thing?" Carol asked, her head turning from Samara to Shane.

Samara shook her head. "Soldiers are fucking _crazy_. It's all that post-traumatic stress and testosterone."

"Are you kiddin' me?" Shane's eyebrows rose in incredulity. "Weren't you a soldier?"

"I was a pilot, not a soldier."_ Why does everyone make this mistake?_ "And if you think that the army would help you without wanting something in return, you're delusional."

"What would they want?" Lori asked; she also doubted the woman. "It's not like we have anythin' valuable."

She shrugged. "Ammo, guns, supplies…" Her eyes gave Lori a once over to make her point. If the deputy wouldn't listen then Rick would. _Hopefully_. "…Other things."

Lori's face fell when she realized what Samara was referring to and her grip on Carl's shoulders tightened to an extent that the boy had to move away from under her hold. The memory of Shane at the CDC was still fresh in her mind. She apologized to her son and avoided Samara's gaze.

The others grownups understood, some shifting in uneasiness. The possibility of _that_ happening had never really crossed their minds until now. Death by walker or some other reason were the forefront.

"I'm not listenin' to this." Shane shook his head and gave her a dubious frown. "How long were you on your own? Two-three months?"

"Not long enough to lose my mind, I assure you." She responded flatly.

Rick put his hand up to stop whatever Shane was going to say. His blue eyes turned on her with sternness. "Samara, I'm with Shane on this. If Fort Benning is still there, I don't believe it's as apocalyptic as you perceive it to be."

Samara's eyes narrowed on the man and she scoffed. "Because the last time I saw something as threatening, it turned out I was wrong, _right_?"

His eyes narrowed with the memory and he leaned forward with his hands on the hood. There was an intensity to the sheriff that was only found when dealing with dangerous situations.

"And may I remind you what happened after you made a hasty decision based on no proof."

It seems the sheriff was still pissed off about_ that._ Samara could practically feel the force of his glower thru the windshield, scorching her.

The others watched their interaction with a feeling of apprehension and confusion. They didn't know what to make of Rick's strong response, since until now he had been nothing but civil towards their new companion. But some—like Daryl, Lori and Shane—watched the exchange with a sense of understanding. Now the hunter was certain that something drastic happened between those two, something that made the sheriff wary of the marshal.

"Have it your way, sheriff." Her tone was arctic. "But I'm not stepping foot in Fort Benning. First car I find that works, I go my own way." She knew what she was talking about. You don't spend eight years transporting soldiers without learning a thing or two about their state of mind and how fragile it could be.

Alistair gave a small whine having become too familiar with his new master's intonations. She was beyond displeased.

Rick's frown increased. While there were some aspects he disagreed strongly with Samara, he didn't want to run her off. She was injured and her healing would probably take a couple of weeks. In addition, having another person with firearm and survival knowledge would be an improvement to the group's welfare.

"Oh come on, you guys are taking this too seriously." Glenn tried to diffuse the situation. He'd only known Samara for a few hours but he didn't want her gone. She was the first person they met that hadn't tried to rob or threaten them with a gun since Atlanta.

"Glenn's right. Besides, you can't even walk let alone be out there on your own." T-Dog agreed. To him Samara was just another survivor, like the Vatos. If she would have been at a hundred percent then he really wouldn't have cared if she stayed or not, but the state she was in now didn't allow his conscious to permit her to leave.

Her eyes narrowed into a glare, setting her face into stone. "I'm not a child and the last time I checked, I didn't need anyone's permission to do anything. If I can walk thru a forest with a concussion and find Wiltshire, then I can drive a car with a few sore muscles."

Daryl shook his head at the woman's pig-headedness. She was just asking to die out there. She had been extremely lucky to survive long enough to find the estates after the accident. But right now, she was pushing that luck.

"If she wants to leave, let her leave. We're not her guardians or her jailers." Andrea finally spoke. This was the first time Samara heard her voice. It was a lilting southern one. A bit too dull, but on normal days it would have been a pleasant voice.

"I agree with Andrea." Shane interjected. "Samara's a grown woman, she can take care of herself."

"Thank you." _Finally, people that see reason._

Rick listened to the others and then slowly nodded his head. "Shane and Andrea are right. I can't stop you if you really want to leave. I'll agree to this on one condition though—if you can find a car and gather enough supplies on the way, then you can go. We'll even give you a box of bullets and a few painkillers."

"That's not your stash to give." Daryl scowled. This was one of the reasons he kept his belongings secret. The sheriff gave away far too many things while getting nothing in return. First the guns to those Mexicans and now his brother's drugs to the Indian.

Rick ignored the man, his eyes never leaving the marshal. "You fine with that?"

Samara watched him shrewdly. His proposition was good, but there was one aspect he left out. "And what happens if I find nothing?"

Rick paused. "We'll see once we come to that."

Samara sighed resignedly but she nodded. It was as good as she could get.

"Alright, now that we have that settled we'll take the highway and keep to it. And I know that the highways and interstates are not the best choice." Rick cut Samara off from protesting. "But, I do not want to take the backroads again. We've encountered more problems there than we did on the highways." When they had decided to circle the Atlanta area and when they headed east, they had stuck to the small roads fearing car blocks. They had probably spent more time repairing the RV because of the damage done by potholes than searching for a place to live. "There's barely any fuel left so some of the cars have to go. Two-three at most. The RV stays obviously."

"Mine. It's already beyond livable." Shane gave T-Dog a disapproving glance.

"Your car was the sturdiest." The man shrugged. "Are you really gonna complain when I saved your ass back there?"

"You could've used a different car, is all I'm sayin'."

"Fine, Shane's car stays behind." Rick looked at the others. "Anyone else?"

"Mine also." Carol added.

"But mom, that's our car." Sophia whispered to her mother with a small frown.

Carol placed a comforting hand atop her head. "I know sweetie, but we all have to make some sacrifices."

"Don't worry Sophia, you and your mom can ride with us." Carl smiled at the girl. Lori nodded her head at the other woman and Carol gave her a grateful smile.

"I can leave the truck behind, use the bike instead." Daryl spoke from his position. Merle would have kicked his ass if he knew about this. He never liked it when someone else drove his motorcycle. "It uses less fuel and I can maneuver thru cars more easily."

"Alright, it's settled then. Let's go."

* * *

Samara was reclined on one of the two beds inside the RV. T-Dog was in the other bed attempting to sleep, but only managing to fall into short naps. The marshal had been zoning in and out for the past two hours, never actually sleeping. Her back felt much better like this. The extra pill she took an hour ago numbed her out good. She was still able to think straight; it was just that her limbs came out lethargic.

Alistair was beside her, his head resting against her stomach, sleeping peacefully. Samara was running her fingers thru his fur absentmindedly. It seemed that with each passing day she was becoming more accustomed to the mutt, to the point that issues of the past became just that, the past. Samara didn't know whether it pleased her or not.

Normally it would have taken around two hours to get to the Fort but they were only halfway there. Several abandoned cars had taken care of that. They had to physically push them out of the way. Samara had scavenged thru them but found nothing of value except for some clothes that were a bit too large for her. Even the cars were useless—while they had some fuel, they had no keys. Honestly, who runs from the undead with the car keys? It's not like the bastards were going to steal it and go joyriding.

…It was times like these that she wished she knew how to hot-wire a car.

Samara sat and listened to Shane disassemble the group's guns and chatting to Andrea about her father's gun—his gift to her and her sister—and then Shane volunteered to teach her how to assemble it. The marshal didn't exactly know what was wrong with the blonde, but the sadness leaking out of her was almost palpable. If she was depressed, putting a gun in her hand might not be the best of ideas.

The RV suddenly slowed down and Dale's complains reached the other passengers ears. Samara rose from the bed in curiosity as to what was making the RV jolt at every mileage. With a displeased huff at having his human cushion move from under him, Alistair relocated on the pillow she vacated.

"If I find you there when I come back, I'm going to shoot you."

Alistair didn't move a muscle. He had stopped reacting to her jabs some time ago when he realized that she never went thru with her threats. T-Dog chuckled and shook his head as he followed the woman.

Samara settled next to Shane—behind Glenn's seat—as everyone stared ahead at the car jam. There was a semi-truck overturned right in their path and cars were littered everywhere on both lanes. Shane cursed once he saw the predicament they were in.

Samara watched as the redneck's bike appeared from between the cars and stopped beside the RV. That motorcycle was really loud. Loud enough to wake the dead…literally.

"See a way through?" Dale asked hopefully, and Daryl nodded before turning the bike around so he could direct the convoy.

Glenn looked at the map with a frown. "Maybe we should head back. There's an interstate bypass—"

"We can't spare the fuel." Dale said in slight frustration. He didn't think they had enough to even reach Fort Benning.

Everyone was tense as they passed the abandoned cars. Eyes were glued to the vehicles with macabre interest and sadness. There so many cars, so many families that must have died or ran to escape the onslaught.

"Jesus." Glenn averted his gaze as they passed a car with a dead family still inside.

"What, never seen a graveyard before?" Samara wasn't impressed with the view. She'd seen much worse.

"Graveyard?" Glenn turned to the woman behind him. The others, except Dale, gave Samara a look.

She jutted her chin forward. "Car jams of this magnitude with the dead still inside."

"Not really." Glenn fidgeted in his seat. He felt queasy being here. "We didn't stick to the highways before."

"You've come by blockades like these before?" Andrea asked from her seat at the booth.

"I usually found them near cities, not in the middle of nowhere." New York had been the worst. Over five kilometers of deserted cars on every road leading out of the city. She's never found a more eerie place than that.

The engine sputtered heavily catching everyone's attention.

"Come on, don't do this to me now." Dale said as he shifted gears and stepped on the peddle. The RV kept moving disjointedly, shaking all the occupants of the RV. The engine groaned and let out a few more sputters before finally dying out. White smoke hissed from the beneath the hood and the RV came to a stop.

Samara brought a hand to her face and pinched the bridge of her nose. This is why you should avoid interstates and highways. Because shit like this happens. They were smack in the middle of a bloody cemetery with no notion to how many undead were around or even a way to see them properly if they came out from between the cars or from under.

This was just _perfect_.

* * *

Everyone got out of the RV and joined with the others from the sheriff's car and the hunter. Daryl wasted no time in searching the back of a family car and Samara stepped forward cautious of any signs of wendigos. Alistair joined her and was sniffing around some clothes left on the pavement.

"I said it, didn't I? A thousand times over." Dale approached the front of the Winnebago and shook his head. The RV was done; it had already been on its last leg even before they decided on losing some of the cars. He had hoped of repairing it back at the estates, but look at how that turned out.

"Is there no chance of startin' the RV?" Rick stopped beside him and watched the smoke with a frown. This was going to be a serious setback.

"No, we need a new radiator hose. How are we going to find one in the middle of—" Dale then realized where he was. Potential was all around. "Okay, that was dumb."

"There's a whole bunch of stuff we can find." Daryl said as he rummaged thru some lugage.

"Maybe we could find some water or food." Carol said hopefully. Provisions were low and water was in much need, especially in this heat.

"We could siphon more fuel from the cars." T-Dog looked around.

"This is a graveyard." Lori said somberly, putting a stop to the others endeavors. "I don't know how I feel about this."

Some of the group just realized that behind the happy prospect of finding new supplies, they were actually about to scavenge from people that either died on this highway or ran off from walkers, abandoning all their belongings in favor of their lives.

"You don't have to feel bad about this." Samara said as she opened a car door and poked the dead passenger with her machete. "It's not like the dead will mind."

It seemed that that put the others back in motion.

"Come on, y'all. Look around, gather what you can." Shane called out as everyone spread out thru the rows of cars except Dale, Glenn and Rick. While some might not like it, they had no choice. If they wanted food and water, they would have to take them from the deceased.

"Watch out for the corpses inside the cars." Samara called after the others. Gods know, these people made enough mistakes as is. "While they may look dead, some walkers are just extremely fatigued. They won't move at the first nudge."

Samara moved ahead with Alistair, picking up clothes and still edible food and placing them inside a duffle Dale gave her. Daryl was just a few feet away with T-Dog siphoning gas. Glenn was searching for a radiator hose and Rick and Dale were at the back of the convoy and on top of the RV as the lookouts. Shane seemed to have found a truck filled with large water bottles and was enjoying one full heartedly. The children and women—except for Andrea who was inside the RV attempting to assemble a gun—were picking out clothes from some valises.

T-Dog and Daryl heard a thud and saw a corpse on the ground a few feet from them. They watched as Samara grabbed a second one and threw it out of a car without any shame. Alistair sniffed the bodies before sneezing and backing away.

T-Dog shook his head at her callous manner. "You know, you could be a bit more respectful."

Samara's head turned from him to the corpses and she shrugged. "Dead is dead. I'm of the belief that when you die, your soul disappears and that's it. The earthly shell is all that's left behind."

"Be that as it may, would you like it if someone did that to a person you cared for?"

"In that respect, I would put a bullet in that someone." She said nonchalantly as she searched the interior. "But, I didn't know these people, so…I don't care."

T-Dog shook his head again and moved on, the sight becoming too offensive for him. Daryl didn't really see what T-Dog was getting so upset about. Dead _was_ dead.

Once Samara saw Daryl alone, she moved. She didn't think she would get a better time than now to speak with him. Her consciousness didn't let her leave the group without thanking the redneck first. She may be a lot of things, but she wasn't ungrateful.

She approached the man as he was sucking on a tube connected to the fuel tank into a car. With a grimace, he spat the petroleum that slipped into his mouth and placed the end of the tube into a fuel canister, filling it up. When a shadow covered him he looked up to see the Native woman towering over him, a slight frown on her face.

—This is just what he needed.

"Hey, redn—" Samara clamped her mouth shut. She was here to thank him not insult him. "Dixon. I want to thank you for what you did back at the estates." _Although you could have done it in a way that didn't involve me being picked up like a trophy_. "And for the painkillers."

The man grunted and went back to his canister.

"Thank Grimes. I wouldn't have given 'em if the sheriff didn't twist my arm." That was a bit of a lie. After he had seen the state she was in before she passed out, he had from his own will given the sheriff a few Doxy's. But the woman didn't need to know that, he just wanted her to leave him alone.

Samara watched him expressionlessly. She hadn't from the beginning thought he'd done it out of sheer kindness or pity. Someone had to force him to hand those pills over.

"Thank you anyways. I owe you double." She looked around, wondering what she could give him to repay her debt. Not clothes, food neither. "You smoke?"

His frown deepened and he nodded.

"If I find any cigarettes, you can have them." With that, she went on ahead in search. Her duty was finished here.

Daryl watched her departing back for a few moments before returning to his task. He paused when he found the woman's dog right in front of him, just staring. Daryl sat still as the dog carefully stepped closer, his head lowered but eyes alert.

When the animal got within a foot from him, Daryl shot his arm out to shoo the dog away. He didn't have time to play 'stalk the hunter' or whatever else the dog was thinking. Alistair immediately ran off, afraid of the man.

Daryl huffed. _Damn dog._

* * *

Samara didn't know how long it passed since she found a pack of smokes. Granted they were already opened, but it was better than nothing. She had changed into a fresh set of clothing, finally getting rid of those stinking materials after wearing them for several days on end, sweating and sleeping in them. A pair of dark jeans, a grey tank top and a beige button-up short sleeve shirt, and finally but most importantly, fresh bra and underwear. The only thing she didn't get rid of was her cherry-brown cowboy boots; they still had their days ahead. With a smirk, she picked a pair of aviator sunglasses hanging from a rear-view mirror. If she could just find a cowboy hat, she'd be in heaven.

Samara wasn't exactly pleased that her hands were bare. The wedding ring was glaring like a neon sign and she wasn't in the mood to answer any question regarding it. Telling the sheriff was one thing, but it was another to share personal information with a whole group.

She gathered enough food to last her and Alistair a week. And with the water Shane found, she was settled. By luck, she found a purse filled with drugs stashed deeply inside a travel case. Whoever the owner was must have been a regular pill-popper. Tablets for headaches, colds, menstrual pangs, antidepressants, sleep disorder, weight loss, aches and—

Dark brows shot up in surprise. _Hello…_

A small bag of ganja.

With a huff, Samara threw it out of the car. Psychedelics weren't on her priority list these days.

The marshal was inspecting a thick dark blanket inside a Range Rover. It was strangely quiet outside, but she didn't give it much thought; it was always quiet these days. That is until Daryl rushed to her side.

"Hide now." He hissed urgently before crawling underneath the car next to the jeep.

Samara didn't spend time questioning him why, his tone said it all. Wendigos. Looking behind, she saw the mother of all undead shambling thru the cars right towards her.

_Fuck, it's a hoard_!

"Alistair, at me. Now!" She whispered sharply at the dog that was a few feet away. Once the dog spotted the corpsey bastards, he ran like no other, fear propelling him inside the car with Samara. He could deal with a few undead, but when they got passed a dozen, he ran.

No way where they going to get underneath a car. If any of the walkers heard them, they'd be surrounded. And if a crawler spotted them, then they were dead. At least in a vehicle they had a moderate amount of protection.

She closed the doors gently behind her, thankful that all the windows were up and laid down in the space where the feet are placed at the backseats of the Rover. Gripping the shaking dog at her chest, she threw the moldy blanket over her and Alistair and made herself as small as possible. A hand clamped over the dog's snout to keep him from whimpering.

"Shhh, stay quiet and I'll treat you to a nice big juicy steak." She whispered soothingly to the dog. If he so much as started a commotion like last time—which she narrowly escaped—she would break his neck, her feelings for the canine aside.

Sweat dripped down her forehead and not all of it was from the dread. The way she was positioned put an enormous strain on her lower back and neck that she could feel even thru the painkillers and she couldn't do a damn thing about it. If she moved she could attract the attention of a passing walker.

It didn't take long before she heard it. The shuffle and groans and moans of the undead. She couldn't see a thing of what was going on with the quilt over her head and she didn't really want to. All she could do at this point was to wait it out.

Samara didn't know how long it passed until the walkers were no longer heard. It could have been an hour or well over it. They were slow as snails and she remembered a time in South Carolina where it had taken almost two hours for a fifty or so hoard to pass by her hiding place.

Even if she couldn't hear them, that didn't coerce her out of hiding. There was always the occasional straggler that popped out right when you thought it was safe.

For a second, Samara thought she heard something. A faint shriek. Listening further, there was nothing to indicate there was a sound in the air. Either someone in the group screamed or the pain was making her hear things. It wouldn't be the first time that happened. First day at the Wiltshire Estates, she had heard all sorts of sounds that weren't real, including her deceased father's voice. But if someone did scream, then she really hoped that the hoard didn't hear it or they will all be fucked royally.

Samara stayed put for another five minutes before she ventured out from under the blanket. At first it was just a peek. She couldn't see any decayed human forms passing by the windows. Letting go of Alistair, she whispered to him to stay put, and looked out the window. There was nothing in the area.

Straightening out, she looked thru all the windows and found nothing. There were some small dots moving up ahead, but they were too far to hear anything if it happened here.

With a heavy exhale she climbed on the backseat and arched her back, hissing thru her teeth at the ache. Gods, it really hurt.

Alistair crawled out from beneath the blanket and joined her on the backseat. His head rested in her lap and now he was openly whimpering and shivering. He seriously feared hoards.

"It's over now." She patted him on the head.

Opening the car door, she gently got out with Alistair. Leaning over slightly, she found no trace of Dixon underneath the parallel car or any signs of blood. Samara slung the duffle filled with food and clothing she left next to the car over her shoulder and looked over the vehicles. She took out her muffled gun and kept it aimed in front of her. She didn't want any surprises.

Alistair sniffed the air around.

"You smell any wendigos?" Dogs had more evolved sense of smell that humans, so Samara depended on him to sniff out the stragglers she couldn't see. "Alistair, find."

The dog sniffed some more before moving forward. Samara followed in a slightly crouched pose. They were heading back towards the convoy and she couldn't see sign or hear any of the others.

What Alistair led her to surprised her somewhat.

Daryl was crouched over a pale semi-conscious T-Dog, tying several shirts over a profoundly bleeding gash on his arm. The muffled gun changed its trajectory to T-Dog's forehead.

"Was he bit?"

Startled, Daryl looked behind to see the Native woman pointing a gun at them. He had been so concentrated on stopping the bleeding that he hadn't noticed her or the dog approach.

"No, he cut himself and lost a lot of blood." The gun still didn't lower making Daryl glare. "Stop aimin' that gun or I'll knock you on your ass, and help me get him to the RV."

Samara lowered the gun after a pause and placed it back in its holster. While she did not appreciate his tone, she recognized the gravity of the situation and put her annoyance aside. She approached T-Dog's right side and slung his arm over her shoulder while Daryl did the same to his left. With a heave, they raised the man off the ground and dragged his barely conscious body back at the convoy.

With a command from Samara, Alistair walked in front. He was still sniffing around, alert for any rotten odors.

"Where are the others?"

"How the hell should I know, I've been with him the whole time."

* * *

Daryl, Samara and T-Dog found the others near the side of the road watching the edge of the forest. Lori was holding Carol and the woman was wailing hysterically for her daughter.

"A little help here." Daryl shouted at the others.

Once they noticed T-Dog's bloodied state, Dale, Glenn and Shane rushed over.

"What happened?" Shane asked them austerely. He feared the worst as the amount of blood on the man was disturbing.

"His arm got cut up."

Dale watched with horror-struck eyes. "Jesus. Glenn, open the door."

The Asian teen hastily did as told and Shane took over for Samara. The woman stretched her back, relieved of the heavy burden. Andrea soon joined them and Samara raised a brow at the woman's face. There was no cut or gash on her where the blackish blood could have come out of.

"What happened to you?"

Before the blonde could answer, Shane did it for her by bellowing in irritation, "Someone get this damn walker out of here."

"Shit, I forgot that it was still there." Andrea climbed the steps and entered the RV. "Glenn, help me with him."

Looking around Samara found no sign of the sheriff. With all the men and Andrea inside she walked over to Lori, Carol and Carl. Alistair, who had been watching the commotion around the RV, followed his master.

"Was T-Dog bit?" Lori's eyes switched uncertainly from the RV to Samara.

"Cut his arm on something." She shrugged, already having put the whole ordeal behind her. "Where's the sheriff?"

"He's gone after Sophia." Lori's gaze darkened with worry. "She ran into the woods after a walker spotted her."

_Sophia? Ah, the girl… So that scream was real._

"My baby…" Carol's hand went back to her mouth, muffling her cries.

Samara averted her gaze. While she could understand the woman's plight, it didn't mean she wanted to be around her right now. She hated when people cried, women especially. Their faces contorted in an ugly manner.

Five minutes later, T-Dog's bleeding finally came to a stop. His arm looked like a mummies appendage, all covered up in bloodied white towels with duct tape holding them together. At this point Daryl had left the RV and was at a small distance from the women, cautiously watching the edge of the forest.

Not even a few minutes later Rick appeared out of the foliage, battered and heaving. He was soaked wet from the knees down and there were drops of blood on his almost white shirt.

"Where is she? Didn't you find her?" Carol watched the man with crippling dismay. She kept looking over his shoulder, hoping that her daughter was a behind him.

Rick didn't pause to answer the woman, he just walked forward.

"W-Where is she? Where's my babygirl?"

"Dad, where's Sophia?" There was a waver in Carl's voice. He didn't want to believe that his only friend was lost or, worse, dead.

Rick shook his head not wanting to answer and headed towards Daryl. There was an urgent look in his blues and considering that the little girl wasn't with him, it meant that he lost her.

"Daryl, I need you to come with me. Right now." He left no room to argue.

"Rick, where's my daughter?" Carol latched onto his shirt and pulled to get his attention. Considering that the woman was usually meek as a mouse, this new development was surprising. Lori came from behind her and unlatched the woman from her husband, holding her to her person.

"She's somewhere safe." Rick lied, wiping his brow of the sweat and dirt in frustration. "I just need Daryl to find the path there."

At this point, Glenn, Andrea and Shane came outside once they heard the commotion. The sheriff's gaze slipped towards his long time friend and the man knew what he was requesting without even having to verbalize it. He walked back inside the RV to get his guns.

"Glenn, you're comin' also. Get a weapon."

"Uh…right." With a jerky move, he slipped inside the RV as Shane was coming out with his shotgun.

Without a pause Rick turned towards Samara. "Can Alistair track scents?"

"He's a sheep herder, not a bloodhound." Besides wendigos and food, he couldn't find shit.

Once the four men were ready, Rick wasted no time in marching straight back into the forest, the men following the sheriff without a word. Daryl was next to the sheriff, while Glenn and Shane formed the end. Before disappearing into the foliage, Rick turned towards the others.

"Everyone stay here." His gaze landed on Samara first, but then seemed to reconsider as it shifted to Lori. "Keep everyone here, do not follow."

A dark brow rose and Samara snorted. What, he thought her incapable of being in charge? Her eyebrows then furrowed...No, it wasn't that. He knew she was capable, he just didn't trust her to.

A deep chuckle made the other women jump in start as it broke the tense silence on the highway. They watched in confusion as the Native shook her head and continued snickering as she walked between the cars back to her scavenging, with the dog following at her heels.

* * *

After twenty minutes of searching, Samara took a break as the heat was becoming too much for her and was currently relaxing in the shade against the tire of the RV, smoking a cigarette from the pack she was supposed to give Dixon. Alistair had found shelter underneath the RV and was ventilating on the cool pavement. Lori had managed to calm Carol down a while ago and the woman was now just staring out into the forest with a troubled expression. The others had scattered around looking for supplies. With the current situation, they needed to do something to keep their minds off the fact that half of their group was now gone. T-Dog was still inside the RV under medication with Dale or Glenn checking up on him every few minutes.

Half of the search team came back about half an hour after leaving. Shane had informed them that they had not found Sophia _yet_ and that Daryl stayed behind with Rick to follow her trail. Carol deepened into her despair as her fears intensified and she all but stopped talking. She returned to her post at the edge of the road and the others scattered, all feeling like this was the start of something unwanted, something that could potentially destroy whatever balance there still was left.

Samara was not exactly moved by the group's plight. Sure, she felt bad for the mother but this is what happens when you have children nowadays. Children are weak, ignorant and are not able to function without someone holding their hand. Eventually, they are the ones that go first.

The marshal watched lazily as Andrea and Shane drove the cars off the road to make room for the RV. She would soon have to relocate from her place, Samara thought, and that brought a grimace on her lips. The summer heat made her too sluggish to do that.

At some point Carol decided to join Dale, her anxiety reaching the point where she could no longer stay silent. "Why are we moving cars instead of looking for my daughter?"

"We have to clear enough room so I can get the RV turned around as soon as it's runnin'. With the fuel we can double back to a bypass that Glenn flagged on the map."

"Going back's goin' to be easier than tryin' to get through this mess." Shane gestured towards the jam once he approached them.

Carol's face fell, shifting on her feet. "We're not going anywhere till my daughter gets back."

"That goes without sayin'." Lori comforted her as she passed with a crate filled with food and cans of soda in her hands.

"It's just a matter of time till Rick and Daryl find her." Shane gave the trembling woman a small smile.

Carol wasn't relieved as she stepped back to her vigilance at the edge of the road. Lori gave the woman's departing back a sad look and continued towards her and Rick's car. There was nothing she could do or say to the woman that could comfort her.

Andrea and Glenn approached the two men with a few items they looted.

"How long do you think they're gonna stay out there?" Andrea nodded towards the forest as she eyed Carol with heavy eyes.

Shane rearranged the shotgun over his shoulder as he spoke tiredly, "As long as it takes."

"Night's gonna settle in a few hours." The blonde stated with a slight warning to her tone. If they didn't find the girl…

"Then let's hope they find her until then." Dale interrupted as he climbed back into the RV to check up on T-Dog for the umpteenth time.

Samara watched as Andrea frowned at the entrance of the RV where the old man stood seconds ago and unscrewed a bottle of water. While sipping on the bottle, she took a nervous peek behind her where the hoard disappeared. "What do you think that was? I've never seen anythin' like that."

"Yeah, all of them marching along like that." Glenn looked in the same direction, still rattled from what happened an hour ago.

"Sound."

The trio turned their attention to the Native woman seated on the pavement with rivulets of smoke floating around her head.

"What?"

Samara's sunglasses shined with the motion as she took another drag from her cigarette. "They're attracted to sound. Anything loud enough to catch their attention, they start marching."

"All of them, just like that?" Glenn frowned.

She nodded languidly. "Picture this, a car explodes. Now that sound carries off for miles, probably more so since the world is quiet as a tomb now. Every walker in that mile radius that hears that explosion will head towards it. On the way, they cross paths with other walkers and soon you have little groups. And the more they meet other groups they expand until there's a hundred or more walking in the same direction."

"Jesus." Andrea let out a breath as she felt a shiver crawl down her spine. The walkers that passed them had probably been around fifty or so. But hundreds…

"This is why you should be as quiet as a mouse. Because if you're not they'll find you." She had learned that the hard way; stopped using her guns unless they had a silencer on.

"This is what must have happened at the camp. They probably—Oh shit." Glenn winced and brought his hands to his face, covering it in horror. "The car…I came into the camp with the alarm on."

Samara started snickering despite the obvious sinister end of the Atlanta campsite. Gods, these people were hopeless. Almost three months into this new world and they still knew squat. "Don't worry, kid. Sooner or later, we all get our hands bloody. Willingly or not."

That brought out some stunned and shocked looks. The fact that she had the balls to say something like that after the many deaths that resulted from the attack caught them off guard.

"There's somethin' wrong with you." Shane gave her a last glower before turning to the distraught Glenn and placing a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. "What happened at the camp wasn't your fault. We've lived there for so long the walkers probably heard us long before that."

Glenn's distressed expression still didn't leave his face. He didn't want to believe that all those deaths were because of his thoughtless joyride. He knew that this will keep him awake tonight; there won't be any rest for him.

Andrea gave Samara a damning glare. Not because of what she said, but because she found it amusing. Her sister's death wasn't a laughing subject. Not to her.

With a huff, Samara lapsed back into silence and finished the rest of her cigarette.

* * *

Samara was loading up a blue Volkswagen Golf with the provisions she found. She had finally found a working car with keys in the ignition, filled up the fuel tank and another two canisters as backup. Samara had left her furry companion underneath the RV where he currently still was, dozing away without worries.

There had been a commotion some time ago involving a radio message issued by the Office of Civil Defense, but she had tuned it out almost immediately. It wasn't like it mattered anymore what a defunct government said.

Dusk was almost upon them and the hunter and sheriff still hadn't returned yet. People were starting to get anxious. In an hour or two it would be pitch black and they were still in the graveyard with no protection or way to see if another herd where to pass by.

While Samara was securing the last canister of fuel, the sheriff's son approached her. The woman gave him a side glance before going back to rearranging the duffels so nothing overturned when the car moved.

"Dad said you were an army pilot." Carl finally spoke after a minute of watching her. His mother had advised him not to approach the woman, but she wasn't around right now to see him. Samara just appeared in their lives not a day ago and he was curious about her.

"He is right."

"That's cool." He traced circles in the layer of dust covering the car. "What kind of planes did you fly?"

"Helicopters mostly. Black Hawks and Apaches." Samara peeked over the sides of the open trunk door, wary of the boy's mother. She didn't want to have Mrs. Sheriff accuse her of corrupting her kid.

"Have you been in war?"

She nodded after a slight pause. "I've been in a few." _More like too many._

"I dreamed of being either a police officer like my dad or a soldier back when everything was still normal." He crossed his arms on the side of the trunk and placed his head atop them. There was a pensive look in his eyes.

"Trust me kid, being in the army wasn't that glamorous as the advertisements said. The only good part was that I got to fly." She probably would have been happier if she kept on flying even after quitting the army, but things have a way of turning out not as you always want them.

"Why did you quit?"

"My father died. It changed my priorities." Samara motioned for him to move from the car so she could close the trunk.

Carl took a step back. "Sorry."

"It was a long time ago." Samara leaned on the closed trunk with her arms crossed. "What about now? What do you wish to do in the desolate future?

Carl thought on this, his gaze distant. It wasn't like he had a lot of options anymore. "Not get bit. Stay alive long enough to grow up into an adult."

His blue eyes were a pale shadow of the intensity that his father could produce. In the future, this kid would have a stare that could rival his old man's, maybe even stronger. It was sad in a sense. He will soon forget what it was like to be normal and this new world will be all that he would know.

"Yeah, that's something good to strive for."

The boy's eyes traveled to the machete at her belt and he sourly remembered the incident with the blades he found an hour ago. It wasn't fair; he couldn't have a gun or even hold a knife and in the mean time his mother expected him to remain safe. He would be safe if he had something to protect himself with. He wanted to be of some use instead of always staying behind with the women.

"Can I hold it?" He pointed at the machete.

Samara let out an amused snort. "I think you're mother would lynch me if I let you."

"Hey Carl, your mom is lookin' for you." Shane called as he approached the conversing duo. "Hop to."

With a sigh, mini-Grimes walked back towards the convoy. Shane watched him for a few seconds before his dark gaze settled on the woman. Samara stepped away from the trunk and sidestepped Shane on her way to the driver's side.

"I see you got everything you need."

"Mhmm."

Shane took a glance behind him to see if anyone was overhearing them. "You still thinkin' of leavin'?"

"That's the plan." She opened the car door and got in.

Shane caught it and stopped her from closing it. Samara stared at him blankly before leaning into her seat. It seemed the deputy wanted to talk.

"I'm thinkin' of leaving also." He leaned on the side of the car, a far away gaze spreading over his eyes. "There's no place for me here anymore. I—"

"That's not going to happen."

The man frowned. "You don't even know what I was gonna say."

"I have a pretty good idea." Samara may not be good with people, but she was pretty damn accurate at reading body language. Lawmen were prone to cultivating that valuable ability considering the individuals they faced on a daily basis, and if they were smart, they perfection it. Grimes had that aptitude. Samara was not sure Shane did considering he wanted to come along with her.

And coupled with what Shane just said…well, it didn't take a genius. "The moment we go on that road we'd be at each other's throats."

"How do you know?"

"Call it a hunch. I'm not someone you can live with easily, the sheriff can attest to that. And you don't seem the type to tolerate much. We'd be a powder keg ready to explode."

"Two have a better chance out there than one and a half." He tried one last time. He wasn't all that excited with the prospect of traveling with this particular woman considering what he knew about her, but going alone would be risky.

"True, but it's still not going to persuade me."

Shane watched her for a few more moments before running his hand over his head and leaving without a word. She'd seen him do that on a number of occasions and Samara wondered if it was a nervous tick or a stress thing.

While having a human partner was not a bad idea, the marshal was finicky when it came to whom. Her investment in Rick had paid off in the end, but Shane was a different story. From what she's observed so far, he was always tense and ready to use his shotgun. He did not like his decisions questioned and he wanted to be the lead. From what the sheriff had told her, Shane had been the head of the Atlanta camp and once Rick appeared, he had been demoted to second. Very few people can accept that.

The group had looked to Rick for guidance and she couldn't blame them. He was a natural born leader, while Shane left to be desired. As she said, the man was too tense.

She had no desire to bring someone like that along with her.

* * *

An hour later, Samara watched from her seat in the car as everyone—even T-Dog who was awake now—seemed to animate and approach the edge of the road. It seemed that the tracking duo were back since there were no screams or gunshots ringing.

The marshal popped an Ibuprofen, swallowed it dryly and left the car. As she finally got them into her field of vision, Samara took notice: Carol was on a verge of hysterics as there was no sign of her child and the hunter seemed to have blood splattered on his jeans.

Not a good sign.

"You can't leave my daughter out there on her own. She's only twelve." Her panic was increasing. "She can't be out there on her own."

"I know this is hard, but I'm asking you not to panic." Rick tried to placate her. "We know she was out there. We have to make this an organized effort. Daryl knows the woods better than anybody and he'll be overseeing this."

Daryl was about to back up the claim, but Carol's eyes slid towards the blood on him. "I-Is that blood?"

"We took down a walker." Rick said, trying to keep eye contact with her away from the stains. "There was no sign it was ever anywhere near Sophia."

"We cut the son of a bitch open, made sure." Daryl explained further.

Feeling the world crash over her head, Carol sat on the barrier separating the road and fauna. Lori joined her, stroking her back in attempted comfort.

Carol's distraught gaze morphed into accusation directed at the sheriff. "How could you just leave her out there to begin with?"

Samara frowned. Now, how was the sheriff at fault here? It was the girl's damn fault for bringing the undead upon her. While that might be a tad harsh on Samara's part, it was the truth.

Rick shook his head in dismay. "Those walkers were on us. I had to draw them off. It was her best chance."

"Sounds like he didn't have a choice, Carol." Shane stepped next to Rick to solidify the man's defense.

"How was she supposed to find her way back on her own? She's just a child."

Rick crouched next to her. The guilt he was feeling was overwhelming, his eyes trying to plead with the woman to understand. "It was the only option I had."

"My little girl is lost in the woods." Carol spoke meekly, slightly rocking in her grief. She could not look Rick in the eye anymore.

Rick rose up from his crouch and for the second time Samara was seeing him defeated and without knowledge of what to do next. The first time had been when she had told him of Atlanta getting bombed and she watched how the glimmer in his eyes disappeared with the knowledge that his family might be dead. With one last look at the crying woman, his blue eyes waivered and he left the circle of people.

Samara did not stop him when he passed her by. The sheriff needed to be alone right now.

She wondered what would happen next. Would the sheriff continue the search or would he cut his loses? Knowing him, he'll pursue her tracks again at first light. Samara almost rolled her eyes at the man's good nature. It was out of place in this world.

The girl was gone. Pure and simple. Even before the plague, the rate of retrieving children that had gone missing was small and it reduced even further once the hours passed. Samara had once been a part of a state hunt for a missing child and it hadn't ended well—the forensics stipulated that the child had been murdered five hours from the moment he had been kidnapped. And considering that there was no technology, police force or even a public to keep their eyes open, it's going to be short of a miracle if they found her dead or alive.

Well…it wasn't like this was her problem.

* * *

Daryl was searching thru the side bags of the motorcycle. Dale had asked him for some painkillers for T-Dog. The man was clenching his teeth so hard to keep the screams from coming out that it hurt the older man to watch.

Daryl picked up the pill bottle and sat on the seat of his bike. He was worn out. After the herd passing by and the dark panic he felt lying underneath that corpse, just watching and praying that those walkers passing by didn't notice him, and then the hours of tracking the girl in the forest in the burning heat, his nerves were stretched thin.

He didn't know what to think of the girl, Sophia. Dark forests aren't exactly the place for children. Wherever she was, she must be scarred shitless and that kind of fear breeds mistakes that could attract walkers. They had to find her soon, otherwise she would go beyond their range. If she wasn't already.

When he noticed the Native and her dog exit the RV and walk towards him, he tensed warily. Someone out there must really hate him at this point. It wasn't that he loathed the woman, but there was definitely something about her that set him on edge. Maybe it was the fact that she was law enforcement, like Shane and Grimes, but he didn't think it was that. It was something else that he couldn't put his finger on.

Samara picked something out of her back pocket and threw it at the hunter's head. Even with the night sky surrounding them and the dim shine from the vehicles headlights, he still caught them and he didn't do it without a scowl. This woman just _loved_ poking people with a very sharp stick.

Looking over the object, he noticed that it was a cigarette pack.

"I took a couple, hope you don't mind." She said as she lit one up, not even waiting for a response.

He pocketed the cigarettes and watched her exhale smoke thru her nostrils. "Why aren't you gone yet?"

"Well I can't really drive in the middle of the night, can I?" She snorted. "I'll head out in the morning. Can't really say I'll miss you lot."

"Feelin's mutual." He grunted.

She smirked wryly, but gave no argument.

Daryl watched her steadily before his eyes moved to Grimes' car behind the RV. The memory of their stand-off while deciding on their route to Fort Benning resurfaced.

"What happened between you two that has him all coiled up like a snake?"

Daryl caught a glimpse of her shoulder twitching up in a nonchalant shrug.

"That's between me and the sheriff." Another cloud of smoke coiled around her face. "If he decides to inform all of you of our adventurein _full_ detail, then that's his prerogative. I, on the other hand, have no reason."

The man huffed and rose from his bike, set on delivering the pills. "What'd you do, kill someone?"

Her lips morphed into an unsettling closed lip smile. Daryl could practically see her eyes flash in the dark. "Hmm…Maybe I gave you too little credit."

The woman and dog walked passed him to their car to settle in for the night, the smoke trailing behind her like an obstinate ghost.

Daryl watched her with a frown. Whatever happened had been fatal considering that the sheriff reacted not too well to killing human beings—evidence when Daryl tried to put a pickaxe into Jim's head while he was still alive. Or maybe she had tried to kill him.

The man stepped forward towards the RV. The marshal could shoot all the people she wanted, he didn't give a damn. As long as she didn't turn those guns on them, it wasn't his problem. Because if she did, he won't hesitate to put an arrow in her.

* * *

**Foot Note:** I already have the story written up to Otis's funeral. I'll probably update in a week or so.


	4. Boy and Deer Don't Match

**Note: **Another over 10,000 word chapter, yay! Sarcasm aside, it's dreary writing so much into one chapter. But I do not want to brake it in two.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

Samara was adding some new provisions to her already ample supply when Rick walked towards her.

Night had passed uneasily and everyone woke up at crack of dawn. They were all going to search for Sophia, except for Dale and T-Dog. One had to repair the RV and the other had obvious reasons for not trekking thru a forest. Rick had gathered his group and armed them with machetes and blades. If they were going to go into the forest then he didn't want them carrying guns. Only he, Daryl and Shane had that privilege because they already knew how to use them.

Once the meeting was over, everyone scattered picking up what they needed for their search. They had decided to follow a creek for five miles then turn around and come back on the other side.

Andrea had stayed behind and was arguing with Dale about something that Samara couldn't hear. Not that she was that interested, she was leaving in a few minutes.

Rick approached Samara, patting Alistair on the head along the way. He was on the hood of the car just watching the scenery while panting as the heat grew.

"You set?"

"As good as I'll ever get." She eyed him cautiously. He didn't look like he was here to wish her good luck and a bon voyage.

"Samara, I know you want to leave." He placed his hands on his hips. He was going to need all the mental strength he possessed for this. "But you think you can stick around until we find Sophia? We need all the help we can get."

He couldn't see what her eyes were expressing from behind those sunglasses, but he did notice the small downturn of her lips.

"This is not my problem."

"I know that. But I'm askin' you as a favor to me."

The others weren't anywhere close to hearing them, except for Daryl and Shane who were just a short distance away. They remained impassive as they listened to the words exchanged. Samara closed the trunk hatch and approached the sheriff.

"If I agree, what do I get in return?" She had been eyeing that Winchester Model 70 since the moment she saw it among the guns that Shane was disassembling. She had considered stealing it, but the deputy was guarding that bag like a pirate did his treasure.

The man paused in incredulity, even Shane and Daryl gave her a look. "Are you serious? After everything that's happened."

"You do remember _who_ you're talking to, right?" The woman that let him live for two boxes of bullets.

Rick pursed his lips. He couldn't believe she was doing this right now. That selfishness of hers that almost left him stranded in a motel in the middle of nowhere with five people pointing guns at him was rearing its ugly head.

"You owe me this." He spoke lowly to her.

She snorted. "For what?"

"Wiltshire—"

"I owed Dixon." She cut him off abruptly. While the sheriff and Shane had provided cover, Daryl was still the one that carried her off and thrown her into his car and then given her the medication. In her eyes, that meant that he alone was to be thanked. "And I paid my debt."

"No, you didn't." The man in question interjected. He was frowning at her not quite harshly, but not exactly surprised. "Only half."

Samara's face fell. In her irritation, she had forgotten one thing. That she told him that he owed him _twofold_. And she only gave him _one_ pack of cigarettes.

_Oh, I can't believe this…_

"Are you blackmailing me?" Her fingers inched closer the gun at her thigh.

"No, I'm sayin' that you owe me." Daryl moved the lowered crossbow in her direction, not aimed but ready to be leveled out and let loose an arrow if she so much as drew that gun on him, consequences be damned. "And you're gonna repay me by lookin' for that little girl."

Samara's expression remained frozen except for her lips that set into a grim line.

"You want me around that much, shitkicker?" Samara's voice was a dark cynicism that leaked hostility at the edges.

"I'm the last person here that wants you to stay, but the more people we have the more ground we cover." He spat at her. "After we find her, you can return to your tipi, squaw."

When her fingers curled around the handle of her gun, Rick's rigid fingers gripped her wrist. Unfortunately for him, as one of the human species, she had two hands, and that is why one of the guns holstered at her chest were pointed at the hunter's forehead. Alistair, having watched the interaction with close attention, sprang to his feet and climbed the roof of the car. He wasn't openly baring his teeth or showing any hostile move, but the people around him could hear the low menacing rumble resonating from deep within his throat.

"Enough!" Rick hissed in anger and pushed the marshal's gun down. He gave the woman a harsh look before the glower turned on the hunter who was currently aiming his weapon at the woman. "Daryl, lower your crossbow and don't say another word."

Daryl and Samara were watching each other like two attack dogs a leash away from tearing each other into pieces. Rick was sure if he hadn't been here, a Wild West shootout would have ensued. It was even worse since Alistair was threatening to jump the car onto the hunter.

"Do it. I suggest shooting me in the head, otherwise I'll rise up and kill you." While goading him, she didn't notice the way Rick's grip on her slackened or the look of dread that passed his eyes. "But it doesn't matter either way, that dog will tear a chunk out of you before you even get a chance to reload."

The hunter's glare deepened, but his finger didn't move from the trigger.

"Daryl!" Rick hissed more firmly. He's had enough of this. They were both acting like stupid brats.

The man's icy gaze moved to the sheriff then to the dog before it fleeted around them. The others had stopped once they heard loud voices and were watching from a safe distance how Daryl was aiming his crossbow at the woman. His weapon lowered, conceding to the sheriff's demand. He spat on the ground near her boots and spun on his feet, moving away from them in revulsion.

"Christ." Shane ran his hand over his head, the tension leaving his body. His finger had been on the trigger this whole time not knowing who to aim his shotgun to. He didn't think Dixon would kill the woman, shoot her with an arrow yes, but not to kill. He wasn't sure about Samara showing the same courtesy.

Rick finally let go of the marshal's wrist and massaged his brow. "This is not how I wanted this to happen."

From a simple request it turned out into a shitstorm. Maybe it would be better if Samara left. Things will get complicated from here on out between Daryl and Samara. He could feel it on his skin and see it in the glare that was still painted over her eyes.

Samara watched the hunter walk between the cars and disappear over the edge of the rail and into the fauna. She couldn't believe that she would have to stay now. After her careful gathering of supplies now she'll have to remain who knew how long until that girl turns up alive or her corpse does.

She let out a small somber laugh. This was really amusing and she was the star of that comedy. She felt like a complete fool.

With a resigned sigh, tumultuous green eyes slid towards the dog on the roof of the car. She motioned to Alistair to get down as he ceased growling once Daryl left. While she had never thought Alistair was capable of harming anyone with the way he always pined and begged for attention, he was a dog, a predator, and even kind dogs react when pushed or threatened with their owner's wellbeing.

Her attention focused on Rick at her side. "Fine. I'll help look for the girl. But once she turns up, _however_ she turns up, I'm gone. I don't like it when people fuck up my plans. And I _really_ hate it when my hand is forced."

"Thank you." Although it came out more reluctant than grateful. "All I want is that girl to be found."

With that Rick walked away with Shane.

Samara watched him direct his puzzled group towards the forest. They didn't know what to make of what happened and Rick gave them no accurate answer. Alistair paused at her feet and looked up at her with wide eyes.

"Come on." She holstered her gun and with a groan, Samara followed.

* * *

Samara was at the back of the line of people trekking thru the forest with Shane as the end lookout. Alistair was up ahead with Rick and Daryl, since he could smell walkers he was more useful there than with her.

Samara's eyes traveled from the ground to the surrounding area. She had found no tracks or unusual disturbances in the foliage that wasn't made by the people in front of her or by wild animals.

Samara was disrupted out of her exploration when Shane snapped sharply at Carl who was showing him the blade his dad had given him. The man was tense, he kept looking everywhere, fingers tightening on his shotgun. She really did hope the man wouldn't accidently shoot off a round.

"You're too tense. Relax."

His eyes settled on her before moving again. "You should be following your own advice. You think I don't see the way your hand keeps going for the gun. And I don't think it's walkers you want to shoot."

"Well, I was just held at crossbow point. Excuse me for still being shaken."

The man huffed with a smile. "Nah. Having a weapon pointed at you is not news, is it? Hell, you didn't even flinch. Besides, surprisingly, Dixon didn't start it."

Samara scowled at him in irritation, but didn't stop moving.

"Don't glare at me. You brought it on yourself." Shane threw a glance over her shoulder to the head of the group. "You want my advice, stay away from him until we find the girl. Don't complicate things for everyone."

Samara really hoped that that would be possible. As much as she wanted to empty her clip into the redneck, her want to leave these people was greater. They were a nuisance, to put it mildly.

The line ahead suddenly stopped and both Samara and Shane moved to the front. There was a tent just a few feet from them. Alistair had his head lowered and spine slightly arched in that familiar pose that alerted Samara that something off was ahead.

"She could be in there." Shane said as he watched the tent attentively.

"Could be a whole bunch of things in there." Daryl whispered.

"No, there's definitely some_one_ in there." Samara added as she walked forward to where Alistair was.

"Is that your Indian expertise?" The hunter grunted in skepticism.

Her scowl returned.

"No, jackass. The dog." She motioned towards the unmoving animal. "He only gets like this when he smells danger, and that usually comes in form of a walker."

She crouched low next to the animal and pointed out to the tent. "Alistair. Walk up. Find wendigos."

The dog suddenly unfrozen and stalked forward, paws barley heard. Rick, Shane, Daryl and Samara followed while the others stayed put. They all walked as silent as possible, Daryl being the most successful at it. The four of them stopped once they were a small distance from the tent so Alistair could inspect it first. The dog sniffed the ground before his snout lead him to the entrance of the tent. Smelling around it, he poked his head inside the slightly open entrance and recoiled back immediately. When his beady eyes returned to the others, he pawed at the tent material.

Someone was home, it seems.

But it wasn't the girl, not alive anyways. Otherwise, Alistair would have entered. "Alistair. Growl. Get their attention."

The dog's guttural snarl was like a low rumble, not loud enough to be heard from a large distance but enough to catch the attention of anyone within a few feet.

But nothing came out. A minute passed. Two. And still nothing.

Samara was no longer concerned. Whatever was in there was either dead or too fatigued to move.

Daryl took the initiative while he settled his crossbow over his shoulder and unsheathed the hunting knife at his belt. He pushed the tent entrance aside and entered. The foul odor that welcomed them could only belong to a decayed corpse. Alistair immediately moved out of the stench area, his sinuses getting more affected that the others. Shane and Rick started coughing, while Samara gagged and covered her nose and mouth with her palm.

_Damn, that was a bad stench._

By now the others approached gradually and were watching with nervous attention. Daryl came out half a minute later and shook his head. It wasn't the girl, just some guy that opted out.

The stillness of the forest and of the group was suddenly broken by bells. Church bells.

Everyone froze in place, not believing what they were hearing. But once the adrenaline kicked in, they ran towards the sound. They did not go far as confusion settled over them. The sound was echoing throughout the forest making it hard to pinpoint which direction it was coming from.

"I think it's comin' from that way." Rick pointed ahead.

Samara stepped on a log and tried to get a sense from where the bells were coming from, but she was just as lost as the others. Alistair had his ears perked up and was walking ahead slowly.

"If we heard them, maybe Sophia does too." Carol said hopefully.

Glenn caught up from behind with Andrea, panting slightly. "Someone's ringing those bells, maybe calling others."

"Or she could be ringing them herself." Rick took the lead and ran at a steady pace. "Come on."

* * *

As they stepped out of the forest they came upon a white church packed with a cemetery.

"That can't be it. Got no steeple, no bells." Shane said as he observed the small church with a perplexed look.

Rick wasted no time and ran towards it, propelling the others to follow. Samara kept her eyes towards the edge of the forest around them. If any wendigos heard those bells, they'll be coming towards it.

Once they reached the red doors of the Baptist church, Rick, Shane and Daryl took the front. Samara was just behind Shane, muffled gun ready. Rick and Daryl opened the doors at the same time. The church was occupied by three seated walkers. Unsheathing their blades, the male trio moved on the walkers and efficiently put them down.

Samara scanned the interior as she reholstered her weapon. Except for Jesus hanging there, no one else was around.

Alistair walked inside and searched between the pews. The rest of the group entered and looked around. Rick checked the other exit of the church and yelled out Sophia's name in frustration.

Shane approached his friend, feeling the same frustration. "I'm telling you, it's the wrong church. It's got no steeple, Rick."

"This is the only church." Samara interjected. Small county churches like these weren't built right next to each other. "The sound must have come from here."

Shane turned on her with a frown. "How do you explain that?"

Samara didn't need to answer since the bells began ringing again and this time they could, without a doubt, say that it was coming from this location. Daryl was the first to rush outside from where the noise came from. He soon found the source of the bells—a speaker attached near the roof of the church. Glen rushed to it and shut it down.

"It's on a timer." Glenn told the others as he disengaged from the electronic box.

Carol watched with dismay. Her shoulders sagged with hopelessness. "I'm gonna go back in for a bit."

Samara watched as the woman dragged her feet inside the church and the others scattered around, their mood wasn't any better than Carol's. They had hoped that the girl was the one ringing the bells signaling them where she was. And now they were back to square one.

Samara sat against the wall of the church. Alistair was somewhere around, probably following the sheriff. She lit up a cigarette and enjoyed the nicotine flavor as her nerves settled. If the girl had been here, she could have been on her way to her car and out of here. It's already been a day. If they didn't find her soon, then the chances of that ever happening were slim. And with that the chances of her ever leaving.

Samara spat on the ground. Damn her and her skewed sense of honor. She should have just left. To hell with the debt.

"Hey, you have any more of those?" Andrea stepped in front of her.

_I have one more actually._ "Can we share this?" She lifted the cigarette she was smoking.

Andrea nodded and sat next to the marshal. With one last puff, Samara gave her the cancer-stick. Andrea only took one hit from it before she started coughing.

Samara watched her with a faint smirk. "Non-smoker?"

"Most of my life." Andrea took another drag from it and grimaced. "Had a phase when I was a teenager."

"Didn't we all."

The blonde handed the cigarette back to Samara. "What was that at the highway? With Daryl?"

Samara frowned as she smoked the rest of her cigarette. "Let's just say that I'll be here for a little while longer."

"Were you roped into this?" Andrea asked after a pause. It was the only explanation on why the woman was still here. The marshal hadn't been all that upset about the girl missing, so it couldn't be because of sympathy.

"Not exactly." She grumbled.

"When you leave…" Andrea started, looking around if anyone was listening. "Do you think I could come with you?"

Samara started chuckling. _Does everyone in this group want to bail out?_

The blonde frowned. "What?"

The marshal shook her head. "For conversation sake, what were you and the old man arguing about?" Samara diverted the line of questioning. If she hadn't wanted Shane to come with her, then she definitely won't want Andrea riding shotgun.

Her frown deepened, but Andrea answered the question. "I thought everyone heard that. Dale's just…He likes to butt into other people's business and make decisions for them regardless of what they want."

"Yeah, I'm familiar with those types." Flashes of her grandparents passed thru her mind.

"It's _my_ gun. I should be allowed to carry it." Andrea's eyes went distant as she looked over the gravestones. She absently murmured the next sentence. "If I want to turn that gun on myself, it's nobody's business. Least of all his."

Samara looked over the blonde, expression blank. _So that was it._ With a sigh, she pushed her aviators over her forehead. While she was against talking personal issues with these people, she could listen. It wasn't like she had anything better to do right now.

"You had a sister."

Andrea's pale blue eyes shifted to her in bewilderment.

"Dale." Samara shrugged.

With an incredulous laugh, the blonde shook her head. Damn that old man. Was nothing private anymore?

"Her name was Amy. She was only twenty-four."

"How did she die?"

Her blond eyebrows furrowed. "She got bit by a walker before we left Atlanta." Her voice dimmed at this point. "I shot her."

Ouch. To kill your last remaining family…Samara couldn't even begin to fathom how that must have felt.

"And Dale thinks you're going to kill yourself if he hands you that gun." Samara wasn't judging the blonde. While she had felt earth-shattering misery when her husband died, she had never turned the gun on herself. She had thought about it, but her hand stayed from it. In that respect, she was a coward and she was glad for it.

"After what happened at the CDC he's taken on the roll of guardian of my well-being." The woman scoffed. Andrea couldn't make a move without Dale asking what she was doing or giving her that 'look'.

Samara frowned in confusion. "The CDC…exploding?"

"I stayed behind." Andrea gave her a wry smile.

The marshal's cogs turned. If Andrea had been fatalistic enough to stay inside a time-bomb building, then she wouldn't have walked out of it on her own volition, not without some coercing. And considering Dale's over-protectiveness around her—

"Dale forced you to leave."

"I forgot you're a marshal." Andrea let out a small dry laugh. "He pretty much guilt tripped me into leaving. Said if I was going to stay, then he will also. And here I am now." She spread out her arms to the view of a desolate field and even gloomier cemetery. "Enjoying the perks of a ravenous freak infested world. Just waiting for the moment I'll get bit."

Samara could see why the blonde wasn't happy. Losing her last relative and remaining alone in this world wasn't something to look forward to. She could emphasize with that.

"What about you? Did you lose anyone?"

Samara shifted. She wasn't about to tell her about John.

"I did answer your questions." Andrea didn't want to be the only one here talking about their most disheartening moments.

"I—"

Just then they heard two voices breaching the spectrum. It was Shane and Lori. The two women listened as they talked about Shane leaving without telling anyone, not even Rick. He thinks that would be best for everyone, and Lori was definitely not happy. But what Samara found _very_ interesting was what Shane said at the end.

"I'm the one that loses you."

_The plot thickens,_ Samara mused with dark amusement. Mrs. Sheriff had been naughty. And with her husband's best friend, no less.

Andrea was watching the exchange with shock. She couldn't believe that Shane intended to leave without a word to anyone. But that also made her rethink her current situation. She could leave with Shane and drive as far away from these people as possible. And Shane was a better partner than Samara; Andrea at least could trust him.

Once Lori headed back inside the church, Samara rose from the ground. She didn't want to be spotted by Shane knowing that she had overheard that conversation. Also, she didn't Andrea to remember her questions.

And so, Samara left the stunned Andrea by walking silently along the wall to the back of the church.

* * *

Everyone was gathered in the cemetery, waiting on the decision on what to do next as Shane and Rick were a distance away talking among themselves.

Samara was sitting on a tombstone with Alistair at her feet. After leaving Andrea, she had searched for the dog and found him reclined in the shadow of the tree they were currently at. As she advanced on the mutt, Samara watched as Shane tried to lose Andrea thru the cemetery. The woman proved to be persistent as she kept on his tail like a hound. Samara couldn't hear them from her position, but she could guess what the subject of their conversation was.

Finally, the group's leader and second-in-command joined the fray.

"Y'all gonna follow the creek bed back. Daryl's gonna be in charge." Shane announced them. "Me and Rick, we're just gonna hang back_,_ search this area another hour or so just to be thorough."

Daryl stepped forward, giving them a disgruntled frown. "You sure splitting us up is wise?"

The man nodded. "Yeah, we'll catch up to you."

"Do you even know how to reach the highway from here?" Samara asked with a frown. The forest around looked the same and if you weren't careful you could get easily confused.

Rick nodded, but he wasn't exactly sure. "We won't stray from the church too far."

Samara watched the faint doubt in his eyes and with a disgruntled grumble, she dislodged from the tombstone. "I'll stay."

That surprised the others, even Rick whose eyebrows shot up. "Are you sure?"

"If you get lost then there will be more people we have to search for and that means I'll be here longer than necessary." She stepped forward, an obvious scowl on her face. "I know how to track. I heard the creek on our way here so finding it and returning to the highway won't be difficult. We can walk deeper into the forest and if the girl passed thru this area I'll notice it."

"Why didn't you say this before? We could have broken into smaller groups and searched for my daughter." Carol looked at her with unfriendliness.

"Nobody asked." Her answer dripped in sarcasm.

"Alright." Rick interjected before anyone rose to the jab. And he could see Daryl, Lori and Shane were just about to. His blue eyes settled on the marshal with small relief. "If Samara knows how to track then we can stay a while longer."

"I want to stay too." Carl looked at his father resolutely. "I'm Sophia's friend."

Rick placed his hands on his hips and frowned. It would be better if he returned to the highway. They were going to search the forest until nightfall before returning to the convoy.

Lori stepped forward to her son and smiled at him. "Just be careful, okay?"

Carl smiled at his mother and nodded, relieved that she conceded.

"When did you start growin' up?" She hugged him and kissed the top of his head, her motherly affection coming off in waves. Parting with her son, she kissed her husband and embraced him too.

Rick whispered soothing words to her as he drew his gun and held it for his wife to take. "Take this. You remember how to use it?"

"I'm not takin' your gun and leavin' you unarmed."

Daryl stepped forward to Lori with a small handgun. "Here, got a spare."

Lori took the offered gun and thanked him. Andrea looked at the scene with incredulity. With a shake of her head, she followed the others back to the RV, disgusted with the sight.

Samara's gaze followed the departing group and then settled on the dog at her feet.

"Dixon, wait."

The man didn't and kept on moving. With a growl, Samara jogged up to him. "Look, take Alistair with you. I don't have time to keep my eyes on him and tracks and the others."

"Take care of your own damn dog, don't dump him on me." The man gave her a side glare. He wasn't exactly a dog person to begin with and he hadn't forgotten their standoff this morning.

Samara scowled at him. "Look, I hate this situation more than you do, believe me. But, he's going to be more useful to your group. You have more people and there's only one person that can actually take down a walker. Alistair can smell them before they even get near."

Daryl's eyes settled on the dog trailing the marshal. With this new position as group leader he would have to keep everyone safe even if he didn't exactly want to. He wasn't leader material. And having the dog watch out for the entire group would cut his vigilance in half.

"Fine." The man grunted. "What are his commands? 'Walk up' and 'find'?"

Samara let out a breath of relief. "'Find' for wendigos. Don't use walker, he doesn't understand that word. 'Cast and hold' to gather and keep the walkers in one area. He'll circle around them, keep them occupied while you destroy them. 'At me' when you want him to come back to you. 'Get back' when you want him away from a walker or just out of your way. He knows the basic ones like sit and heel and such, so there's nothing to worry about that. Don't tell him to attack. I don't know if animals can get infected." She thought of any other useful command, but she couldn't find none. "Also, say his name before the command, he understands it better this way."

_Find. Cast and hold. At me. Get back._ _Name before command_. Daryl nodded in understanding.

"Will he even listen? I don't exactly sound like you."

"He likes male southern drawls. I think it reminds him of his dead owners." She gave the dog a look. He became attached to Rick during their journey to Atlanta and she's seen him trail either him or Shane on occasion. He tried to follow Daryl at one point, but the redneck shooed him away.

Samara crouched down next to the dog. "Alistair, follow him." She pointed to the man beside her. Alistair gave the hunter a cowed look and whined lowly, his ears flattening. "Don't worry, he won't bite you…I think."

Daryl's frown deepened. Devils with pointy pitchforks came to mind.

"Just follow and listen to him." And with that Samara rose to her feet and walked back to Rick and Shane.

Daryl and the dog stared at each other. Alistair lowered his head and slowly turned over onto his back, belly up. Daryl rolled his eyes at his submissiveness and walked away. The last thing he was going to do was pet the damn mutt.

* * *

Samara waited on the steps with Shane and Carl for Rick. He was inside the church, probably talking to JC or praying or whatever white people did in churches. Samara was pacing in front of the two fiddling with the bottle of Ibuprofens. She had taken one just a few minutes ago as the last pill was losing its numbing affect.

"How long do you think dad's going to take?" Carl looked over his shoulder towards the opened red doors.

"Not long." Shane ruffled his hair. "He needs his time right now."

Carl leaned on his elbows and watched the marshal twirl the orange plastic. "Samara, why don't you want to search for Sophia?" He figured that out from the way she grumbled and groaned. He found it strange because, in his view, adults were supposed to care about missing children.

The marshal paused. "It's not that I don't, I just…"

Now, Samara was in a bit of a conundrum. How could she answer a question like that to a kid without sounding like an awful person?So she resolved to give him the only answer she could conjure.

"It's complicated."

Shane shook his head and addressed the boy. "Look Carl, Samara had her own plans made even before Sophia went missin'. Sometimes, people don't like it when their plans get screwed up."

"But Sophia's twelve. She's just a kid. Aren't officers supposed to search for missing people?"

_This is just getting better and better_, Samara grimaced.

"Yeah, they are. But the world's changed. Not everyone's following the old rules anymore. Some, just don't care any longer."

Samara gave the deputy a deadpan stare.

He shrugged. Shane wasn't obliged to lie to the boy for her. She made her own bed, she better lay in it.

"Look kid," Samara tried to show on her face as much remorse as possible…which probably came out more as a scowl than anything. "You have to understand, I don't exactly know any of you except for your father and even that is marginally. You're not my group, I have no obligations to any of you."

"But, don't you care?" Those puppy-dog eyes made guilt crawl into her chest. Which was immediately shot down.

"It's sad that the girl is missing, and I'm sorry for her mother. I sympathize with her, but do not expect anything else from me."

He lowered his head and distractedly tried to wipe the dirt of his fingers. "Do you think we'll find her?"

Samara threw Shane a peek. He was giving her a 'you-better-answer-that-question-positively' look otherwise he would give her a berating she'd never heard before.

"…Sure."

Just then, Rick stepped out of the church and joined the trio. Samara pocketed her bottle and observed the grim look on the sheriff's face.

"Get what you needed?" Shane asked his friend.

"Guess I'll find out."

* * *

Samara was ahead of the group with Rick while Shane and Carl were behind. Her eyes barely unglued from the ground, always searching for signs of life. They had decided to do a wide half-circle around the church area and were now an hour into their search.

"Anything?"

She shook her head. "Found some deer tracks, though."

Rick sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead. A headache was starting to form in his temple, the stress overwhelming him.

Samara noticed his dejection with a frown.

"You need to stop blaming yourself." She spoke as low as she could so the others wouldn't hear. Shane probably could since he was being too oblivious to their words.

Rick shook his head. "It's my fault that all this happened."

"No, it's not." Samara scowled in frustration. His altruistic nature was starting to get on her nerves. "You did all you could have done considering the shitty situation. Nobody could have done anything better."

"There had to be more."

Samara sighed. "Sheriff, you keep adding up that stress, you're going to give yourself an ulcer."

"She's right, man." Shane looked worriedly at Rick's back. This entire situation was weighting heavy on his shoulders and wasn't sharing any of it. He was hoping for that miracle that will make everything right. Shane doubted that it would ever happen. Miracles didn't happen easily these days, if at all.

Rick didn't answer, he just nudged Samara forward.

While Samara didn't particularly care what happened to these people, she had a soft spot for the sheriff. He was a strong man and seeing him break at the seams wasn't fun to watch. It was quite sad actually.

Samara froze half-way from plating her right foot on the ground. Her hand shot up and motioned for the other to stop.

"What is it?" Rick whispered.

"I heard something. Wait here."

Samara took out her silenced gun and walked ahead, careful of any branches or twigs she might step on. Passing the two feet high bushes on her left, she came upon a sight that left her _famished_.

There was a buck foraging not five feet from them.

With a small smirk she motioned to the other to come forward silently. Once they saw the animal, the tension defused like a balloon. It was a welcome sight, this.

Samara had a different idea as she aimed her gun towards the buck's head. Deer meat was good for the body.

Rick waved a hand at Samara to dissuade her from her next course of action. He motioned towards his son who was staring bright eyed at the animal in front of him. This was the first time he came close to a deer and Rick didn't want it ruined by Samara lodging a bullet in the woodland animal's cranium.

Samara, Rick and Shane stayed put and watched as Carl moved slowly forward, getting as close to the buck as possible. The smile on his face made the men reminiscence on a time not long ago when things weren't as difficult and the world wasn't as dangerous. Even Samara cracked a small smile. The boy and the deer. It reminded her of the childhood stories her grandfather told.

It felt strange, the sensation formed in that small area. As if time had stopped and they were in a different pocket of space. There was no apocalypse or lost little girls they had to find, just the four of them and the animal.

But like all things good, they have to come to an end.

And this end was explosive.

_Boom._

The adults watched stunned as Carl fell to the ground unmoving. The buck followed the boy's lead and toppled, blood leaking from a wound on its upper torso.

Time unfroze.

"No…no, no, no." Rick ran to his son. He felt like the world had just crashed over his head reducing him to sand grains. "Carl? Carl!"

Rick was crouched over his son, checking him over. Blood was seeping fast into his shirt, the bullet having perforated his side.

"Carl! Oh Christ, he's not movin'." Rick looked at his best friend with wide teary eyes.

Shane crouched to the boy's other side and checked his pulse. It was still there, but beating erratically. "He's still breathin'. Put pressure on his wound."

Shane wasn't in any different emotional state. He loved Carl. If he died—

Samara passed the three of them hurriedly and searched for the source of the bullet. They didn't need anyone else shot. She found the culprit a few feet in front of them in the form of an overweight man in hunter gear holding a rifle. The stranger came out of the foliage, watching the scene with horror painted all over his face.

The marshal aimed her gun and hissed severely. "Put the rifle down. Put it down now!"

"Oh god. I didn't—I didn't see him!" The man stuttered as the horror grew. "The buck—"

"I said now, or I swear to the gods I'll shoot your kneecaps off!" Samara bellowed at this point. _This big fucker better listen or he'll be limping for the rest of his short life._

The man shakily lowered the rifle and put his hands up, his eye never leaving the bleeding boy.

"What did you do?" Rick's eyes found the man and he yelled, anger and sorrow cracking his voice. "What did you do!?"

Samara picked the rifle and slung it over her shoulder. Shane joined her not a moment later and was furiously aiming his shotgun at the man's head.

"Oh god, no. Carl…" At this point, any strong front that the sheriff had fell as his boy laid on the ground bleeding to death. "What did you do?" He asked hoarsely again as he applied pressure on the wound.

The stranger was shaking his head in stunned disbelief. The only thing that circled in his head was that this couldn't be happening.

"I—Hershel, he can—" The man took a deep breath and spoke more steadily. "There's a farm not far away from here. We can take your boy there. My father in law, he can help."

"You better fuckin' hope he can." Shane growled. His vision was swimming from the rage and unshed tears. "Rick, wrap your belt around the wound. We need to move, now!"

Rick did as told, taking off his belt with shaking fingers. At first try, he failed. With a frustrated howl he practically ripped the belt off the loops and wrapped it tightly around Carl's side.

"Where's the farm?" Samara asked somberly.

"About t-two miles north from here."

"Fuck, you call that close?!" Shane spat and nudged the man forward. "Show us the way!"

Two miles was too long on foot. Even in a fast run. It would take about twenty minutes considering they had to carry Carl.

But Rick was not deterred. He picked up his son and started running.

* * *

A lush green field with a white farmhouse came in Samara's view as she stepped out of the forest. Rick was nowhere to be seen, most likely having entered the house by now.

She and Shane were flanking the stranger—Otis—on both sides. The marshal wasn't worried that the man would run off. The guilt alone made him run. Unfortunately, his weight wasn't helping and he'd stumbled and tripped a few times before regaining his pace. This prompted Rick to leave them behind as the three of them were too slow.

With her speed, Samara was feeling her lower back throbbing, but ignored it as best as possible. This wasn't the time to complain about her pains.

"Move, you shithead!" Shane shouted at Otis when he slowed down again. With force, he brought the heavy man to his feet and pushed him forward.

"Dammit, come on!" Shane took a hold of his arm and then shouted after the marshal who was slightly ahead of them. "Samara, help me!"

The woman backtracked, gripped Otis's free arm and hurried him to their destination as fast as the man's legs would allow.

Once passed the fence, they tiredly reached the residence. Samara breathed deeply and placed her hands on the small of her back, while craning her neck. She could practically feel her bones creak and her muscles stretch. Her eyes popped open when Rick exited the house not a minute later, his shirt drenched in blood and his face pale.

"Rick, how's Carl?" Samara said between breaths. The man was in shock, his eyes never registering fully what was happening in front of him.

"He's alive?" Otis asked nervously as Rick wiped his brow and left smudges of Carl's blood on his face. "Is your boy still alive?"

Shane handed Samara the bag of guns and took out a piece of red cloth out of it. He climbed the steps of the front porch and stood toe to toe with Rick. With the red material he cautiously wiped off the blood painted on the stunned man. Rick barely moved, only swaying with the motions. Shane placed the cloth in Rick's hands and the sheriff just stared at it, not knowing what to do. Tears sprang to his eyes again as he noticed all the blood on him.

Samara averted her eyes. This was painful to watch.

"Okay. I'll take it from you." Shane tried to placate him and took the offending piece out of his hands. "Where is he? Is Carl okay?"

Rick broke the numbness encompassing him and his expression cracked, a tear rolling down his cheek. Shane placed his hand on the man's shoulder and guided him inside. Otis followed with Samara reluctantly. She watched Grimes' back with dread. The sheriff was in a _really_ bad shape. If his son died, he would probably lose his mind at this point.

Samara's eyes flitted once she entered the house. As expected, it was decorated like all farmhouses. The furniture seemed like from a different age and the floorboards creaked. It told her that the farm had been on this land for quite some time. They entered a small bedroom where an old man was hunched over Carl with a towel over the wound. There were two other women in the room, the young brunette was attaching an IV bag to a lamp while the older blonde one was standing out of the way and watching the boy with a pitying look.

Samara leaned her free shoulder against the door entrance, one hand clutching the gun bag tightly and the other resting on the gun handle at her thigh. Her attention was divided between the happenings in the room and the rest of the house. She wanted to be prepared if someone else was in the house as she was greeted not a few seconds ago with two new people—a teenage girl and boy. As such, she kept everyone in her field of vision.

"What's his blood type?" The southern drawl was strong in the old man's voice.

"A-positive. S-Same as mine." Rick stumbled on his words, his eyes glued to his pale son. Shane was also gazing at the boy with anxiety.

"That's fortunate. Don't wander far. I'm gonna need you."

"I'm type O." The marshal declared as she gave Carl a fleeting glance. "…If that helps."

The old man—Hershel, if she remembered the name correctly—finally noticed the new female occupant. "It would. Type O is universal. Do you have any medical conditions I need to know about?"

"No. I—Shit." She remembered the drugs she took. "I'm on Ibuprofens, and I think there's still some Doxycycline left in my system."

The man shook his head. "Then no, you can't help. His weakened system could react to them." His eyes moved from Samara to Otis. "What happened?"

"I was tracking a buck." The man started, still in dumbfounded shock. "Bullet went clean through it."

The old man nodded in understanding. "The deer slowed the bullet down, which certainly saved his life, but it did not go through clean. It broke up into pieces." Hershel sighed wearily. "If I can get the bullet fragments out...and I'm countin' six."

At this point Otis moved from the door to the older blonde woman. He tried to explain to her as she wrapped her arms around him. "I never saw him. Not until he was on the ground."

"Lori doesn't know." Rick said suddenly. His wife was miles away from here, oblivious to their son possibly dying. "My wife doesn't know."

Shane took a hold of his shoulder and whispered comfortingly into his ear something too low for Samara to hear. Rick hid his face behind his hand, weeping inconsolably. He was tottering on the verge of a break-down.

"My wife doesn't know."

* * *

Samara, Rick and Shane were outside the room. Hershel had shooed everyone away except for the blonde woman so he could work on the boy without a crowd breathing down his neck. Both men were seated on the couch, while Samara was on the lone chair. Nobody was talking. There wasn't much to talk right now, the only thing they could do was wait. And waiting was always the hardest part.

Samara felt like shit. The situation had escalated from the girl missing to the other child of the group dying in the room next to them. The waiting, the boy dying…it brought out some demons she had buried very deep inside and if she stayed one more second in this house she was going to vomit.

Rising up, she left both men and exited the house. Otis was on the steps, looking emptily at the field ahead.

"How is he?" He asked once he saw the woman descend the stairs.

"There's no news yet." Samara lit up her last cigarette and shakily exhaled the nicotine. Usually cigarettes helped in calming her nerves, but right now it did squat. Her fingers grazed her jean pocket. Her photos were there. The urge to get them out and stroke the 2D faces of her father and husband was strong.

The man let out a deep breath and ran his sweaty palms over his face. "I am sorry. I never wanted this to happen."

The marshal nodded faintly. "I'm pretty sure if you had shot him on purpose, you would be dead by now." Either by Rick or Shane's hand.

"If that boy dies, I—"

"Let's hope that doesn't happen. For all our sakes." Samara slid the man's rifle from her shoulder and gave it to him. "Here."

The man gripped the rifle and gave it a disgruntled look. He shot the boy with it.

"That blonde. She your wife?" Samara tried to take the man's and her mind off the shooting.

"Yeah." He said vaguely. "Her name's Patricia."

Muffled screams erupted from the house.

"Dad!" Carl's pain-filled cry reached their ears.

Samara took off her sunglasses and ran a hand thru her hair. She just wanted to bolt from here. Run as far away as possible.

"Stop! You're killin' him!" Rick shouted to someone.

"Jesus." Otis placed his palm over his mouth in watched the door to the house with anxiety.

Samara closed her eyes, took another drag from her cigarette and tried unsuccessfully to block out the screams.

* * *

Samara and Otis entered the house once the screaming stopped, thinking the worse. As it was, Carl passed out from the pain. Rick was currently donating blood to his son in waves. He would bleed himself dry if he knew that that would save his son.

The marshal was waiting in the living room with Otis and the brunette girl—Maggie, as she introduced herself—when Rick and Shane came out.

"How's the boy?" Samara asked. Carl wasn't dead yet, otherwise Rick would be tearing down the walls.

Shane leaned against the wall with a sigh. "He's stable, for now."

The occupants of the room breathed more easily. It was better than nothing.

Rick was seated on the lone chair, exhausted from donating his blood and from the pressure. "Lori has to be here, Shane. She has to know."

"I get that. I'm gonna handle it...But you've gotta handle your end."

"My-my end?" Rick looked in confusion.

"Your end is being here, for your son." The deputy crouched next to Rick. "Even if he didn't need your blood to survive, there is no way I'd let you walk out that door. Man, I'd break your legs if you tried."

Rick hung his head, tears gathering in his eyes again.

"If something happened to him and you weren't here...If he slipped away while you were gone, you would never forgive yourself for that, and neither would Lori."

"You're right." Rick said after a pause and wiped his palms on his pant legs.

"When was I ever wrong?" Shane tried to deflate the situation with a bit of humor but it didn't work. Rick didn't twitch a facial muscle.

"You know, when you were in that hospital." Shane caught Rick's attention and moved closer to his friend. "You should've seen Lori. The strength of that woman. You can't imagine it."

There was obvious pride in Shane's voice. Samara could only think that if Lori had been that strong then she wouldn't have slept with him. But then again, people have funny ways of coping with heartache.

"See, that's what you gotta have now. Carl needs that from you. So, you wire yourself tight, my friend." Their foreheads connected, displaying that emotion fostered between them since high school—the deep bond of friendship and trust.

Samara shifted in her seat, not comfortable. This wasn't a sight she or the other two were supposed to see, in her opinion. This was private.

"You've got the hard part. You just leave the rest to me, okay?"

Rock nodded and spoke humbly. "All right."

"Rick…" Samara started, catching the attention of the occupants of the room. "I could go back after Lori. Bring her here."

"You would do that?" The man sniffled and Samara had to avert her gaze to his cheek. The force behind his bloodshot eyes cowed her.

"Yeah." She gave him a weak smile. "I'm the only one that can find the way back."

The sheriff nodded and spoke hoarsely. "Thank you, Samara."

"You see? Everything has a way of workin' out." Shane squeezed the sheriff's shoulder and gave Samara a nod. It was one out of respect for standing up in a crisis like this.

The marshal wasn't moved by it, though. The decision to go back was more for herself than anything else. It would give her ample time to clear her head of dark memories and heart of unwanted old emotions.

"Do you know how to ride?" The brunette rose from her seat and stepped next to older woman.

"A horse?" Samara's face fell and a flash of fear passed her green eyes. "Yeah, I know how to ride one."

"You can take one of the horses." Maggie looked at her resolutely. "This way you can travel faster."

"Uh…" The marshal's eyes traveled from Maggie to Rick. Her fear of the large beasts was overshadowed by Rick's grief and all-over emotions.

"…Alright."

The door to the adjunct room opened and Hershel stepped out. A towel was in his hands and he was wiping the blood of them. "He's out of danger for the moment, but I need to remove those remaining fragments."

"How? You saw how he was." Rick asked.

"I know, and that was the shallowest one. I need to go deeper to get the others." The old sighed. "There's more_."_

Rick closed his eyes in trepidation, but he nodded for Hershel to continue.

"His belly's distended, his pressure's droppin', which means there's internal bleedin'. A fragment must have nicked one of the blood vessels. I have to open him up, find the bleeder and stitch it. And he can't move while I'm in there, at all. If he reacts the same as before, I'll sever an artery and he'll be dead in minutes." Hershel's tone left no room for argument. "To even try this, I have to put him under. But if I do, he won't be able to breathe on his own. Same bad results."

"What'll it take?"

Otis stepped forward, his gaze on his father-in-law. "You need a respirator. What else?"

"The tube that goes with it, extra surgical supplies, drapes, sutures. If I had all that, I could try to save him." Considering the boy's age and the circumstances, Hershel didn't know if he would survive the procedure either ways.

"Nearest hospital went up in flames a month ago." It then dawned on Otis. "The high school…"

Hershel nodded, his mind already on that place. "They set up a FEMA shelter there. They would have everythin' we need."

"Place was overrun last time I saw it. You couldn't get near it." The burly man shifted uneasily. "Maybe it's better now."

"I said leave the rest to me." Shane sighed, and gave a weak smile to his friend. The implications of what they were talking were huge. "Is it too late to take that back?"

"I hate you goin' alone." Rick gave his friend a concerned look. If the high school was overrun, who knew what would happen to his friend. If he got overwhelmed—

Samara hoped that Rick wasn't about to suggest she go with Shane. As much as she didn't want to see the boy die, she wasn't about to stroll into a building infested with walkers. Her self-preservation came first.

Shane shook his head. He was alright with it, as much as he could be. "Doc, why don't you do me a list, draw me a map."

"You won't need a map." Otis stepped forward. "I'll take you there. Ain't but five miles."

"Otis, no." Patricia gave her husband a reprimanding look.

"Honey, I'm responsible for this." The man said stubbornly. He wasn't going to change his mind. "I ain't gonna sit here while this fella takes this on alone. I'll be all right."

"Are you sure about this?" Shane asked. Considering the way they ran over here, Otis wasn't exactly built for endurance. If something happened, he didn't want this man's blood on his hands.

"Do you even know what any of the stuff he's talking about looks like?"

Shane brows rose. Now that he asked—"Not really."

"I've been a volunteer EMT, I do." He paused on each other occupant of the room. "Now, we can talk about this 'till next Sunday, or we could just go do it real quick."

"I'll take quick." Shane smiled faintly.

"I should thank you." Rick gave the man short nod. He still couldn't look him straight in the eyes. Not yet.

"Wait 'till that boy of yours is up and around, then we'll talk." Otis then turned on his heel and walked deeper into the house. "I'll gather some things, meet you outside."

"Hey, come on." Maggie touched her arm and motioned to the exit. "I'll take you to the stables."

With a nod, Samara followed the younger female, but was stopped at the threshold by a hand gripping her arm.

"Samara, wait." Rick was beside her and he was panting faintly. He was really weak from the blood-loss. "Tell Lori…" He tried to articulate, but the words wouldn't come out of his mouth. "Tell her that—"

"Don't worry, Grimes." She grabbed his wrist and gently disentangled it from her arm. "I got this."

His hand found hers and gave it a faint squeeze. Samara's brow twitched. _Too personal…_

With a dry smile, she exited the house.

* * *

Samara watched the large horse with a distrusting glare. She could almost see the way its mind was conjuring up plans to throw her off its back.

"Are you sure you can ride one?" Maggie asked as she settled the harnesses and saddle on the horse. The woman was standing at a distance from them and was watching the animal like it was about to attack her at any second.

"Yeah, I just haven't ridden one since high-school." Samara stepped closer, vigil of the way the horse's eyes followed her. She used to love riding, that is until one of her grandparent's horses kicked her in the stomach. Never touched one since.

Maggie sighed and gave her a doubtful stare. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Samara straightened her shoulders and moved forward, helping Maggie with the saddle. "No, I can do this." She wasn't about to be mollycoddled by a damn twenty year old. She could do this.

"It's like riding a bike." With one last belt, Maggie patted the horse on the neck. "It'll come to you as you go."

"Let's hope so." Samara breathed in deeply. She placed her foot in one of the stirrups, gripped the pommel of the saddle and hoisted herself up. With a grunt she seated herself on the horse.

The horse gave a shake of its mane and backed up a little, unused to the foreign rider.

"Woah. Woah." Samara gripped the reins of the horse, stopping its movements. Sweat was starting to accumulate on her brow. "Like riding a bike. Like riding a bike…" She repeated to herself.

"Alright." Maggie stepped closer and gave the rider her full attention. "You said your group is back on the highway snarl, right? Tell them to backtrack to Fairburn road. Two miles down is a mailbox with the name Greene on it. Follow the dirt road and you'll come up at the farm. And tell them to shut the gate on their way in."

Samara nodded and Maggie moved away from the animal. With a heavy breath, the marshal nudged the horse in its sides. The animal neighed and started trotting.

Without a goodbye to the girl, Samara rode out of the stable at half speed. Once the horse didn't show any signs of hostility and Samara's confidence grew, she nudged it harder. The horses speed grew into a dash.

_Tonenili God of Water, watch over me. And if this beast even thinks about throwing me off, send a lightning bolt down on its head._

* * *

Daryl was ahead of the group with the dog a few paces ahead. Up until now, the dog had been nothing but obedient. He listened to every command and didn't stray from the group.

The hunter's mind was still on the gunshot. Whatever happened back there, it couldn't have been walkers. Lori was right in that regard, neither of the three lawmen would have shot off a round if there had been a walker or even a few. The possibility of someone else firing at the other group was real. But then the others would have opened fire in retaliation.

Daryl scoffed. Maybe the marshal shot someone. He wouldn't put it past her.

"How much farther?" Lori asked from the back of the group.

"Maybe a hundred yards as the crow flies." Daryl answered. They still had some way to go.

"Too bad we're not crows." Andrea sighed. She was tired as hell and her legs were only going with the motion now. It didn't help when she got tangled up in a thick spider web. "Shit. As the crow flies, my ass."

Alistair up ahead froze suddenly and growled low. That made Daryl stand at attention, crossbow ready. The mutt caught scent of something. Daryl motioned to the others to stop.

Everyone slowed in their walk and listened. The faint sound of rustling and low hisses came from ahead. Daryl motioned for them to stay put while he nudged the dog forward.

"Alistair, cast and hold."

The Collie didn't wait for a second command and trotted forward silently. He knew his duty and Daryl watched as three walkers came into the clearing. Alistair caught the walkers attention by barking and growling at them. The rotten bastards forgot about the living people in front and shuffled after the dog. Alistair circled out of their reach, confusing them and providing Daryl the time to launch an arrow into one of the walkers head's. Glenn stepped forward and rammed his machete in the second walker, splitting its head in two. The last walker dismissed the dog in favor for the humans. It shambled forward with renewed vigor and headed towards the hunter. Daryl already had a new arrow reloaded and aimed at the walkers head.

A scream disrupted him from pulling the trigger. Looking behind he didn't see Andrea with the group. She was too far away from the others, fighting off a walker with a small hunting knife.

_Shit!_

Without wasting a minute, he launched the arrow into the walker coming after him and ran back. The others weren't far behind, already thinking that the worst possible thing happened. Alistair was ahead of the group, barking loudly. He tried to divert the walker's attention, but the walking corpse was too focused on Andrea to care about anything else.

The blonde woman was on the ground screaming hysterically, kicking the walker as it tried to claw at her.

_Goddammit! _He couldn't lose a person, not now. He was in charge of this goddamn group; he wasn't going to let anyone die.

Daryl never came close to the walker, because in that moment a horse appeared out from between the thick trees and galloped furiously towards the walker. With a swing of the rider's machete, the walker's head was cleaver in two.

"Holy shit, that was close." Samara heaved as she observed the downed walker. A few seconds more and the blonde would have been dinner.

Andrea breathed in large gulps of air, the adrenaline and near death experience making her whole body shake. She sagged boneless on the ground, needing a few minutes until she could form a coherent thought.

Samara reined the horse to a stop and looked around for the others. "Lori!"

Lori, Daryl, Glen and Carol finally reached the two women. The others looked astounded at the marshal atop the horse. Where the hell had she come from, and whose horse was that? And more importantly, where were the others.

"Lori, you need to come with me. There was an accident. Carl's been shot."

Lori froze in numb shock. She couldn't comprehend what Samara just said. Carl…her son…was shot? What—

"He's still alive, but you have to come now. Rick needs you." Samara interrupted her racing thoughts and Lori wasted no time in throwing the backpack off her and stepping towards the horse. Her brain was still having problems understanding what Samara said, but her whole body reacted to the marshal's urgency.

"What the hell happened?" Daryl stopped next to the large animal and took a hold of the reins so Samara couldn't leave without an explanation.

Samara pulled the shaking mother atop the horse and her somber gaze landed on Daryl.

"No time to explain." She tried to pull the reins out of the man's hands. "Just get to the others on the highway and backtrack to Fairburn road. Drive two miles down until you see a mailbox with the name Greene on it. Follow the dirt road and you'll reach a white farm. Everyone's there."

Daryl let go of the reins, knowing that this was a much as he was going to get from her. Samara turned her gaze to Glenn and threw a set of keys at him. The young man caught it with a fumble.

"Bring my car also. It's the Blue Volkswagen."

Without further ado, she nudged the horse back to where she came from. Alistair ran after the horse, not even stopping when Samara shouted at him. He wasn't going to stay behind this time.

The now smaller group watched the horse's departure with either shock or lack of sensation. Another disaster befell this group.

Daryl ran a hand over his sweaty bangs. At this point, they had one missing girl, a boy on the verge of dying, a suicidal woman and a man with a bleeding arm. Christ, one more disaster and this whole group will break apart.

"Come on, let's go." Daryl rounded up the others and helped Andrea to her feet. She was still on the ground, but fortunately the unsteadiness subsided and she was a lot calmer now.

"That's it? Samara just rides here, tells everyone that Carl was shot, and we're just supposed to move on?" Glenn's gaze riveted from the location the horse was last seen to Daryl.

"What the hell do you want me to do, chinaman?" The hunter turned his frown on the Asian. "Run after the horse like the dog? Be my guest."

"No, I just—" Glenn tightened his grip on the machete and kicked a small rock out of frustration. "I feel useless."

_Join the club._

Daryl took the lead again and marched onwards. There was nothing he could do right now except move forward.

* * *

**Foot Note:** I don't know if I'm right or just being paranoid, but Samara seems to share many personality traits with Daryl. The last thing I want is for her to turn into a female version of him. Am I wrong?


	5. Back to School

**Note:** In response to one of my reviewers, Quest, I understand your relief for seeing a strong female character. Trust me when I say this, I pretty much wrote this fic because of that. I've read so many TWD stories with whinny or weak women that always needed saving, that it just angered me. I'm not saying that Samara doesn't have her weak moments, but considering her background she is better at not showing them. If that makes her a far-fetched character, then so be it. I rather she be like that, than useless.

End of rant.

**PS:** In regards to 'I Walk the Line', I just read that it's rather hard to make cars explode. Mythbusters did an episode on it and even they couldn't do it, at least not with bullets. And I suspect that Molotovs would just set it on fire. Well, that certainly fucks up that part of the story. Oops. Let's just chalk it up to some good ol' luck and leave it at that.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

Lori watched the scenery pass her by in high speed. Samara was pushing the horse to its limit in reaching the farm. Alistair was barely keeping up; he was a few meters behind them, but was unrelenting in his chase.

Her arms were tightly gripping the woman in front. Lori needed something to keep her anchored right now, and Samara was the only rock in the storm raging inside her.

"Samara, what happened?" Her voice shook at the end. She had tried keeping quiet, but now she couldn't anymore. If she didn't learn more about Carl, the dam was going to burst.

"Everything will be explained at the farm." Samara shouted to her, the wind muffling her voice. "Don't talk. I need to concentrate on where we're going."

Lori's grip tightened and her voice broke, tears gathering in her eyes. "At least tell me that my son is alive."

In her jumbled mind, she forgot that Samara had already explained this.

"He's alive. Just loosen your hold a bit, you're crushing my stomach."

The woman's arms slackened and she whispered an apology in her shoulder. That apology kept being repeated like a mantra almost unconsciously.

Lori didn't know how long it passed as her face stayed hidden on Samara's shoulder. She had tried keeping her mind as clear as possible, but it failed almost immediately. Her thoughts always returned to Carl.

"There it is."

Lori was shaken out of her stupor and looked over the marshal's shoulder. They were out of the forest and into a green field. Ahead was the farmhouse. Lori could see two figures on the front porch.

"Go faster." Lori's eyes were glued to the two people. She knew that one of them was her husband.

Samara shook her head. "I push this horse any more, he'll die."

Once passed the wire fences, Samara slowed the horse down to a trot and finally stopped a few paces from the house. Lori's eyes widened when she saw the blood on her husband's shirt. It was so much of it she started to doubt Samara's sincerity.

Lori didn't wait for Samara to help her dismount the horse, she just jumped right off it. Once her feet touched the ground, Lori's façade broke and the tears poured out in streams. Rick caught her and held her tightly against him, whispering apologies to her.

"Where is he?" Lori whispered roughly between sobs. "Where's my boy?"

Samara watched as the two disheartened parents ran into the house. Alistair had finally caught up to her and was panting like a marathon runner. With a deep breath, Samara nudged the horse towards the stables.

* * *

The marshal waited with Alistair in the living room for any sign of life from the sick room. Maggie had helped her in dissembling the reins and belts off the horse before stepping into the house. Despite the situation, the young woman had given her a bit of a tongue lashing for the horse's health state. He had been near dropping dead and Samara apologized for pushing the horse to the extremes. She had learned from the girl that Shane and Otis had left a few minutes after her, and there had been no sign of them since.

Samara was reclined against the soft couch, keeping her back as straight as possible. Now that she was off that monster, her back was on flames. She was pretty sure that her lower back was swollen judging by the hard, fleshy bump. Every time she poked it, it felt like being zapped with a cattle prodder.

The marshal had taken a couple of more Ibuprofens for the pain and now she was beautifully numb. Alistair was sprawled on the floor next to the sofa, his sad eyes watching the closed door. The scent of death coming from the next room dampened his mood.

Hershel had exited the room a few minutes ago. It seems nothing changed in the boy's welfare. He was still weak and he still needed the surgical procedure.

Lori and Rick came out of the room. Rick was still faint from donating blood as his wife helped him walk down the hall. Samara stayed put and listened to the conversation the Grimes had with Hershel. It was hushed, but she caught some parts of their talk.

One of them that she heard clearly was where Hershel said that he was a veterinarian, not a doctor.

The marshal huffed in bewildered hilarity. Her pale green gaze turned to the dog.

"Well, if you ever get hurt at least you're set."

Alistair licked his nose and continued on with wheezing.

Samara heard a clatter from where the conversing trio was. Someone either moved furniture or a chair fell. It was probably Rick fainting or something similar. If she was in his position and just found out that her child's continued existence was in the hands of an animal doctor, she'd also feel lightheaded.

* * *

Samara exited the house with Alistair. The dog rushed out of the door and down the steps into the fields. He probably had his doggy business to do. Samara had learned from Otis the names of the other occupants of the farmhouse. Jimmy was the young man and Beth was the youngest of the women. Patricia, Maggie and Beth were Hershel's daughters, and Jimmy was or had been Beth's boyfriend before the world ended.

The Greene girls were sitting on the front porch. The older woman's eyes followed the dirt road, searching for any signs of the blue truck. It was near dusk and they hadn't returned.

"It's been hours, they should have been back by now." Patricia crossed her arms. She felt like she was going insane from the wait.

Maggie rubbed her back. "It's not that easy. They have to search for a dozen different supplies and if there are those _things_ around, it's gonna take a while."

"Maggie's right." Beth gave her older sister a small smile. "Don't worry about it. Otis knows what he's doing."

"I should have never let him go." The older woman shook her head.

"He owed the Grimes at least that much." Samara descended the stairs. "Eye for an eye."

The Greene sisters watched the woman with uneasiness. They didn't like the sight of all those guns strapped to her. All these people were strangers to the family. _Heavily_ armed strangers.

"How many of you are there? Your group, I mean." Maggie asked her curiously.

Samara scoffed. "They're not my group. They're just some people I'm stuck with for the time being. But to answer your question, there are six others. Two females and four males.

"What happened to your face?" Beth asked as she stared at all the scars on the woman's face. She looked like she had fought a cat.

"Beth." Patricia reprimanded her. Beth just shrugged her shoulders, she didn't see any harm in asking.

"Had a car accident a few days ago." Samara answered coolly. She then remembered something. The reason that brought them into this mess. "You didn't by any chance see a little girl wander around?"

"A girl?" Beth gave her a strange look.

"Yeah. Blonde hair, twelve years old. Name's Sophia."

Maggie shook her head. "You're the first people we see in months. Is that why you were in the forest? Searchin' for her?"

Samara nodded. "She went missing a day ago."

"I'm sorry." Patricia gave the woman a faint smile, but Samara had no reaction to it.

"You can tell that to her mother, not me. She's the one that needs it."

"Maybe Otis saw her. He spends more time in the forest then any of us. You can ask him when he comes back." Beth told her.

_If he comes back_, Samara thought.

Patricia rubbed her arms. The afternoon heat was finally starting to cool off. "The people you travel with, are they good people?"

The marshal paused. Did they mean good Christians or just good in general? It was hard to tell with rural folks. "Define good."

"Will they try to cause any trouble when they come here?" Maggie clarified with a small frown. While she might not know how to handle a gun, she could swing a bat like it was nobody's business. She wouldn't go down without a fight. "We won't stand for that, just so you know."

"Don't worry, they're not the type." The group was so morally rooted that it didn't even come into question.

"What about you?"

Samara smirked grimly. "I'm a different type of breed. But as I said, you have nothing to worry."

The marshal looked over the fields and saw Alistair prancing around happily. It was such a quiet place, this farm. Any other time, it would have been a great place to grow old with a spouse.

"Have you people been here this entire time?"

"Since the sickness? Yes." Patricia nodded and sighed. "We're waitin' for it to pass over."

Samara gave the women a bizarre look. "Pass over?"

Beth shrugged. "It's like the bird flu, right? If you give it enough time, it's going to slow down and die."

"What?" Samara had a hard time believing what the girl just said. If they thought that this apocalypse is just a passing fancy, then what did they think of the undead shambling around the world. That they were _sick_?

"What exactly do you think happened to the people that are now ravenous flesh-eating monsters?"

Maggie was the one that answered and she wasn't happy. "They're not monsters. They're just sick people."

The marshal froze. About a half a minute passed before she snorted and then laughed lowly. The laugh soon turned into a horrifying cackle. The three women watched with shocked and chagrined expressions as the marshal bended over and laughed her ass off.

"Why are you laughin'?" Maggie's lips were pursed angrily. She stood up and watched the woman with a glare. "I don't find anythin' funny about this."

"Oh, I disagree. This is hilarious." Samara's laughing turned into a small titter. "I thought the group was bad, but this is just…beyond what I ever expected."

Sick people…Now that was really funny. What did they think, that the _sick_ would be cured of their deadness and cannibalism with a vaccine?

These 'sick' people are dead. Not in dead tired or so lazy that they appear dead. But very _very_ dead. Only difference is, they are still walking this earth. And not in a Revelation, Jesus rose from his cave sort of way, but in an 'I'll-eat-any-living-being-that-is-still-breathing'.

This is no sickness that will pass. You cannot heal rotten flesh.

The walking dead can only be saved with a well placed bullet in their head.

That was it.

But Samara wasn't going to waste time explaining this. She had better things to do than lecture backwoods people…like sleep.

* * *

The marshal and Alistair had stood out of the Grimes' and Hershel's way. She didn't know anything about medical practice and she wasn't part of the family, so she wasn't needed.

Day had turned into night and Shane and Otis still hadn't come back. With each hour, Lori and Rick became more and more worried and their son became more and more fatigued. She had already heard the Grimes fight over Rick trying to leave to search for Shane. Lori had immediately shut it down and with good reason. Rick could barely walk let alone drive.

Nobody from the highway arrived at the farm and Samara wondered if the redneck fucked up her directions. She wouldn't be surprised.

Samara was sleeping on the sofa when she felt something shake her lightly. One of her hands immediately unholstered a gun while the other gripped the foreign appendage.

"Jesus!"

Samara's vision focused on the sight of Lori bended over her with wide petrified eyes. The marshal's gun was pressed against her forehead and her wrist was caught in an iron grip.

Samara cursed lowly. She holstered her gun and let go of Lori's wrist.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Lori stepped away from the woman while massaging her wrist. The marshal had one hell of a strong grip.

Samara gave the woman a tired glare and rose to a sitting position. "Don't you know better than waking up an armed person?"

"If I knew you were gonna react like that, I would have thought twice." The sheriff's wife gave her an uneasy frown.

"What is it?" Samara yawned and looked towards the room where Carl was. "Has he gotten worse?"

"No…not yet." The woman shook her head dejectedly before giving the marshal a serious look. "Rick and I, we need to talk to you."

"About?"

The woman motioned to follow. Samara rose to her feet with a groan and Alistair followed. She stepped into the room where Carl was after Lori and closed the door in Alistair's face. A muffled thump and whine was heard soon after, but was ignored. Rick was seated in a chair next to the bed and was watching his son with an intensity that bordered on tears.

Lori sat on the bed beside her son and Samara leaned against the wall closest to the exit.

Rick's eyes finally settled on her and reclined in his chair. He looked like he was about to pass out at any second. Samara could see the faint syringe marks on his inner elbow.

"Shane still hasn't returned. I want to go after him but circumstances won't allow me." His donating arm gave a twitch and his blue eyes settled on Lori.

Samara's eyes narrowed. Oh, hell no. He wasn't thinking that—"You want me to go?"

"If Shane and Hershel's man are in trouble then they need help." Rick tried to make her understand. "And I can't do it. If I could leave I would already be there."

Samara shook her head. "No."

"Samara, please listen." Rick shifted to the edge of his seat. His palms were joined together in a praying motion. With each word, his hands moved to emphasize the gravity of his words. "If Carl—if my _son_ doesn't get those medical supplies soon he will die."

Samara unglued from the wall and crouched next to the sheriff's seat.

"I know, Grimes. But do you understand what you're asking me to do?" She watched him steadily. This was not an easy request. Not by a long shot. "You are asking me to go out there, in the pitch black, to find a high-school that is most likely crawling with dozens of walkers. And when I get there, I have no idea where Shane and Otis are or even if they are alive."

Rick tried to say something but Samara put up a hand to finish.

"If they are alive, then they are trapped somewhere I probably won't be able to reach. And if they're not…then there's really nothing I can do." Maybe if she had at least a dozen armed men with her, she could. But on her own was unlikely.

Rick leaned forward and leveled the marshal with a serious look. He wasn't a fool, he knew the implications.

"When you say it like that, then I understand where your worries lie. But this is my son's life on the line and rationality isn't somethin' I'm about to listen to."

Samara scoffed. "Right, you won't listen when it comes to someone else's ass on the line."

"That's not fair." Lori jumped in to defend her husband.

"Isn't it?" Samara turned to her and spoke lowly, so the boy wouldn't wake up. "This is my life you are talking about. Shane has a good reason for going on this suicidal mission. He loves Carl and he loves the both of you. But me? Why in your Jesus Christ would I risk my life for—"

Lori's brows rose in disbelief. "For what? Saving a twelve year old boy's life? Are you really that heartless?"

The marshal frowned in defensiveness. "Trust me woman, if I was as heartless as you perceive me to be, I wouldn't be here." _I would be on the road with your gun bag and the majority of your supplies. And you people would be a few members short._

"I didn't ask for any of this to happen. I just wanted to go on my way this morning and now I'm stuck here looking for a lost girl and then _this_ happens." She motioned towards the unconscious boy.

"You think I did?!" Lori hissed heatedly. "We're the ones standin' here with a child dyin'!"

Her anger suddenly cracked and tears gathered in her russet eyes. Her hand covered her mouth to stop the sobs from coming out. Rick moved from the chair and sat next to his wife. Lori practically jumped into his arms, hugging him for dear life.

Samara sat in the vacant chair and averted her eyes. She waited for the woman to calm down and speak coherently.

"Do you have any idea how this feels?" Lori disentangled from her husband and sniffled. She wiped the tears from her eyes and took a deep breath. "Just sittin' and hoping that his heart doesn't stop beatin' at every passin' second. That help will come, but you have no idea when or if ever. The helplessness that…"

She stopped talking, unable to say another word as her eyes settled on her dying son. Rick gripped her hand tightly and his thumb caressed her skin soothingly.

Samara's flat eyes watched the sniffling woman. If this was a ploy for guilt-tripping her into going, then…it was working.

"I know more of what you're going thru than you might realize, Mrs. Grimes." Samara's tone was soft and low.

With a sigh, the marshal leaned into her chair and massaged her brow. She couldn't believe that she was actually thinking of going. All because Lori shed a few tears.

Damn, she was getting soft.

"I'll go by the school, check out the area, but in return I want that debt settled." She gave Rick a challenging look. He better take her offer, otherwise he could just forget it.

Rick nodded. He just wanted her to go and find Shane.

Samara breathed in relief. Finally, that ordeal was over. "And I'm going to need a rifle. I'm not going out there with only three handguns."

"Fine."

Samara rose to her feet. "And that rifle will permanently remain with me." She knew she was pushing it, but Rick didn't have much of a choice if he wanted her help.

Rick sighed tiredly. Samara really didn't relent on that _wining_ personality of hers.

"You ain't exactly leavin' me with any choice." Rick nodded and Samara searched the bag Shane left in the corner of the room. Picking out the Winchester, she checked the feed system. The rifle was a five round capacity. The marshal picked out the box of bullets that matched the rifle and took half of another box for the handguns.

"Samara, thank you." Lori called after her softly.

Samara nodded curtly and stepped out of the room. She had to find Hershel.

"You better hope the old farmer has another car." Samara scowled. "I'm not riding a fucking horse again."

* * *

"We have a small family van. It has gas in it and everythin'."

Maggie and Jimmy were guiding Samara and Alistair outside towards the back of the house. Hershel had agreed on borrowing his car to her and he personally drew a map to the high-school. As the girl said it was a small family car that was as old as time itself. Even the paint was scrapped off it.

"Are you sure it works?" Samara watched the car with doubt.

Maggie nodded. "It's old, but it still has life in it."

"I'm just worried that it doesn't break down on me in the middle of the road."

"It won't. It's got a steady engine."

Samara sighed. It will have to do. "Do you have any alcohol?"

"No."

"Really?" Her brows shot up. Don't farmers usually have a shitload of alcohol around? "Not even a bottle of whiskey?"

"No." Her refusal was harsher this time. "My dad's house is alcohol free."

_Picked a hell of a time to stop drinking_. "Then do you have any empty bottles I can use?" She could fill them up with fuel from the van.

"Yeah, I think there are some in the cellar. What do you want them for?"

"Molotov's." Samara said nonchalantly.

Before Jimmy or Maggie could say a word, the faint sound of tires reached their ears.

"Maybe that's Otis." Jimmy said hopefully to the women as he jogged towards the dirt road.

Samara, Maggie and the dog sprinted after him, but they were dismayed when they saw that it was a Volkswagen coming down the road and not the truck. Samara saw Glen behind the wheel and T-Dog in the passenger seat.

"They from the highway?" Jimmy asked.

Samara nodded and marched to the blue vehicle.

"Get out of that car." Samara sternly said as the engine of the car stopped.

"Hey." Glen opened the car door and got out, T-Dog following his lead. "Sorry we took so long."

"Don't care." She shooed him away from the car. "Move."

He did hurriedly. The older woman wasn't in a bargaining mood. Actually, she looked positively feral. And that made the young man's flight instincts flare up.

"Is everything alright?" He peeked at the two strangers that accompanied the marshal. "Where are you going?"

"Rick will explain." Samara motioned for the dog to enter the open car as she placed the rifle in between the two front seats. Without breaking pace, she occupied the driver seat.

"Don't you need those bottles?" Jimmy approached the car door.

Samara shook her head. "Not anymore." She had found some alcohol bottles at the highway and they were currently stored in the trunk, prepared and all. She was good.

"Do you need me to repeat those directions?" Maggie asked her.

"No. I got it."

Without another word, she started the engine and swiveled the car around, spraying dirt on the four of them. Coughing, they watched as the car's headlights became fainter and fainter before fully disappearing into the night.

* * *

Samara's grip on the steering wheel tightened with each passing minute. She followed the directions on the map to the detail and should come upon the high-school in a few minutes.

What the hell was she doing? Driving up to a FEMA shelter to find Shane and Otis—knowing that there were fifty/fifty chances that they were alive—was insane. She was asking for a wendigo bite.

Thoughts of leaving crawled into her mind from that egotistical black pit located at her core. She had everything she needed in the trunk of her car and with the extra firearm and ammunition she was set. She could just drive onwards and forget about everything. Find an empty farm somewhere and settle in.

Every time these thoughts came to mind, Lori and Rick's devastated faces passed her eyes. The boy lying there on the bed with one foot in the grave, his father's angered howling when he had been carrying his wounded son to the farm, him just standing on the porch with that lost expression. Once these images came to Samara her will to change course shriveled up and burnt to ashes.

And that just made her cranky. Not two days and Rick managed to crawl back under her skin. And this time, his family joined the merry band. Gods, at this point she really wished she had been as heartless as Lori thought she was.

Her fist thumped on the steering wheel. Why? Why him? What was it about Grimes that always managed to change her usual pattern of looking for oneself? It was becoming annoyingly predictable how that man could change her mind with just a few words. Yes, sometimes there were other factors that entered the persuasion, but all those factors were connected to him.

It sickened her.

Alistair was quiet beside her. He could smell the gravity of their situation and the anger wafting off his owner, and so kept his noise to a minimum.

Samara slowed the car once she spotted a blue truck parked by the side of the road. Stopping parallel with it, she observed the interior. Nobody was inside and there was no blood. Samara backed the car and stopped it just a few paces from the truck. If she needed to leave quickly it would be best for Otis's truck not to interfere.

Exiting the car, Samara and Alistair rounded up on the car and opened the trunk. She carefully retrieved two prepared bottles, leaving the others alone. With the rifle over her shoulder, the two bottles in hand, she climbed the hill on the left side of the road with her silenced gun in her other hand. Once at the top, she crouched low and observed the parking lot. Several cars were strewn across the pavement: ambulances, police, army, civilian cars. There was a large medical trailer near the high-school. About a dozen walkers littered the parking lot.

Samara gave the dog a look. He was watching the walkers with alert eyes and arched spine. He was anxious, the stench of death was everywhere. He could not focus on one scent alone.

Samara cautiously marched forward towards the back of an open police car. She would give anything to have her night-vision goggles here with her, but alas they were in a house hundreds of miles away. Her only reprieve was that it was a cloudless night and the moon shone bright. Samara peeked around the corner of the car to see if any of the undead caught her movements. They did not.

The marshal was about to move when a gunshot froze her and the dog in place. It was from a shotgun by the sound of it.

The walkers started marching towards it, their interest piqued. Samara watched as the corpses rounded the high-school and disappeared behind the corners.

Someone was still living. If it was a shotgun then Shane was alive somewhere at the back of the school.

Samara walked hastily behind the cars and stopped when she heard two other gunshots. This time a rifle. And another shotgun round.

They're both alive, it seems.

Samara placed the gun back in its holster, settled the bottles on the ground and took out the map Maggie drew for her in regards to the high-school. She lit the small pocket flashlight she had with her and gazed at the map. The parking lot was in front of the school and at the back of the building was a courtyard and behind it, a football field with a small indoors gymnasium. There were two pathways leading around the high-school. Samara looked around and saw the lanes were somewhat clear. A car could go past without much difficulty.

She knew what she had to do. She had to draw the walkers away from those two, give them some leeway.

Samara pocketed the flashlight and map, picked the bottles and ran back to the police car. Now that the walkers were gone she could inspect it freely. The keys were still in the ignition. Alistair hopped in the car and Samara turned the key on, the engine sputtering to life. Pushing the pedal almost thru the floor, the tires screeched and the car sprinted forward.

* * *

Shane and Otis were trapped. They were at the back of the school surrounded by walkers. If it wasn't for the chain fence, they would be dead by now. They couldn't go back, the high-school was filled with walkers. They could hear them scratching at the door, ready to burst it open.

"We have to get out of here." Otis watched the walkers gripping at the fence with dread.

"How do you suggest we do that? There's no way to go thru."

"We could—"

A screeching, high pitched sound burst thru the night air and swallowed the ravenous growls of the dead. Shane and Otis watched baffled as a police car with its sirens blaring appeared from around the corner of the building and sped on the football field. The walkers turned slowly towards it as surprised as their rotten faces could show. The car stopped and a person and a dog got out.

Not even a minute later, Shane and Otis ducked and covered when something alight flew and hit several of the walkers, setting them on fire. The dog started running and barking, catching the corpse's attentions and like the mindless, short-attention freaks that they are, they shuffled towards the meal they could reach instead of the ones they couldn't. Shane watched as the dog paced in front of the walkers before running, letting them tail him. Now that he recognized who the two new players were, Shane and Otis watched as Alistair jumped back in the car and Samara follow right behind him. She drove off the field with the walkers chasing the noisy car, giving the two men the opportunity to flee.

"I'll be damned." Otis watched in amazement as the fence around them was clear save for a few walkers they could take down on their own.

"Yeah..."

* * *

Samara kept the walkers in the rear-view mirror as the car sped at a small speed. She needed to keep them interested in the car and not backtrack to Shane and Otis.

The police vehicle drove off the field and rounded up on the school building, crashing into and pushing off two cars out of her way. Samara slowed the car and veered it so it stood horizontally on the road, blocking the oncoming wave of dead. She set the car in gear and got out hastily with the dog. She needed the sirens to keep singing, so the car stayed on.

"Alistair, go back. Cast and bring the wendigos!" She hissed at the dog. Alistair ran back after the herd of walkers howling and barking his vocal cords off.

Slinging the rifle off her shoulder, she took off her button up shirt and stuffed half of it into the fuel tank of the car. With her last Molotov, she ripped the rag out of the bottle and poured the liquid content on the trunk, fuel tank and back tire. This way the flames would spread quicker.

This was probably one of the stupidest things she's ever done, but she was short on bombs. Besides, she didn't even know if the car will explode.

Bringing out a lighter and throwing the now empty bottle away, she looked over the trunk of the car as she waited for Alistair.

Minutes passed. Samara noticed three walkers coming from the side and approaching fast. Must have been stragglers that she didn't see when she arrived. With a growl she shot them off with her silenced gun. The parking lot was clear now. Thank the gods for small mercies.

Sweat poured down her brow. She was in a really bad location. Her sides were exposed to every walker that hears the siren and she had droves coming from the front and several from her right. Not to mention the fact that she was about to set the car on fire. If Alistair didn't come soon, she'll have to detonate.

Barks resounded again and the marshal saw the dog round the corner of the building. The walkers soon appeared, dozens upon dozens chasing the dog.

"Alistair, run!"

Alistair sidestepped the car and kept on running, no longer caring about the undead on his tail. Once a quarter of the walkers reached the car, Samara hastily set the rag on fire.

Without a glance back, she ran for dear life. She could hear the undead bastards at her back—much closer than she would have liked—growling after her. Not even five seconds passed, when a scorching heat hit her back.

—The car must have set on fire.

It didn't stop her from running cast a look behind her and observed the aftereffects. The walkers that had been close to the car caught on fire, but it didn't stop them from marching.

_Dammit, where's an explosion when you need one! _Now she had flaming walkers after her! _Perfect!_

The marshal's face fell when she caught sight of what was ahead of her. There were two walkers in short distance of Alistair, and he didn't notice them.

_Fuck!_

"Run, you stupid dog!" Without a pause she aimed her handgun at the undead and shot them. But in her run she only managed to hit one in the head while the others were hit in the chest and shoulder respectively. It was enough to send Alistair running, but the abruptness of when he turned made the dog let out a sharp cry.

"Shit…" Samara stopped and centered her aim. Two shots and the remaining walkers went down. She picked up the pace again and approached the limping dog. She did not waste time in checking him over and squarely picked him up and ran. The walkers from her back had picked up the pace and were closing in, on fire or not.

The marshal hoped that this gave Shane and Otis enough time to reach the road.

Samara heard a gunshot and pain-filled screams followed, but it didn't stop her from running. It actually made her go faster. Another shot was fired and more screams, this time it wasn't a rifle or shotgun. Samara looked on the side, but couldn't see anything of what was happening because of a school bus blocking her vision and the blackness of the night. Once she reached the edge of the parking lot, she stopped and waited for any signs of a survivor. The screams still continued, but now accompanied by the growls and groans of the undead.

The walkers that had been chasing her were still moving, but some had fallen, the fire burning them too extensively. They still had a way until they reached her so Samara wasn't worried. But that didn't stop her from placing the dog on the pavement, shrugging off the rifle from her shoulder and shooting them off one by one.

Soon enough, Shane rounded the bus, limping quickly towards her. He had two large backpacks with him, but no Otis.

It seems that Otis was the one screaming.

"Help me!" Shane shouted as he breathed heavily.

Samara slung the riffle back over her shoulder, commanded Alistair to stay still and ran back. With a heave she swung Otis's backpack over her free shoulder and with her unoccupied hand gripped Shane by the arm and propelled him forward. With one peek behind, she saw more than a dozen walkers dog-piled atop what was left of Otis, enjoying his flesh and innards blissfully.

_Goddamn…_

"What the hell happened?"

Shane just shook his head. He couldn't speak right now, not after what occurred. What _he_ did.

Not a second later and a large explosion shook their world. In their alarm, they both stopped and looked towards the source of the noise. Samara's brow twitched when she saw the police car reduced to scrap.

_Now it decided to explode!_

"What the—?" Shane started, but Samara simply nudged him forward. They still were in a dangerous place after all.

"Tell you later." Samara moved as fast as she could with her arms full of bag, guns and Shane. The marshal and deputy didn't even slow down as they ran down the hill towards the cars, Alistair right on their tail. Once at the truck, Samara placed the backpack she carried in the back of the truck and took off the one that Shane had on his back, throwing it alongside the other.

"Can you drive?"

Shane nodded and entered the driver's side of the truck.

Samara picked up the dog and ran for her car. Upon entering it, she threw the rifle on the backseat and placed Alistair on the passenger seat. Not even missing a beat, she started the engine of the car as the truck in front sped down the lane. Her car followed soon after.

The marshal gave one last look in the rear-view mirror and saw nothing following them. The walkers were probably occupied with eating Otis and burning than give chase to the two cars.

Samara's eyes returned to the road in front and let out the breath she had been holding since Shane showed up. Now that the stressful situation had been left behind, she could feel the adrenaline leave her body in droves, making her body quiver uncontrollably and that butterfly feeling grow in her stomach. Cold sweat poured down her forehead in abundance.

_What a bloody mess…_

Her eyes watched the truck with dead eyes and pursed lips. Gunshots and screams and Otis dead. And only Shane came out alive.

Her grip on the steering wheel made her knuckles go white.

_This does not bode well._

* * *

The two cars came to a stop once they reached the front of the farmhouse. Once the others heard the twin engines, they came out of the house.

Samara unclenched her fingers from the steering wheel, opened the interior light and checked up on Alistair who had been strangely quiet. There was no blood on him, or cuts or gashes, but he kept licking his back paw. Prodding his hind quarter, she got a jump out of him and a small whine.

—He either sprained his leg or broke it.

With a sigh, she stroked his fur. Stupid dog. He should have been more attuned to his surroundings. But considering the circus that she had made out of the whole ordeal, she doubted he could have heard them over the sirens.

"I'm sorry about that." She told him gently as she petted him on the head. The dog licked her bare fingers in gratitude that she was being gentle and not her usual crotchety self. She took the rifle from the backseat, wiped her fingers of the saliva and picked the dog up carefully. With a heave, she got out of the car.

Shane was already out and giving the backpacks to Hershel. The farmer looked around Shane for his son-in-law. He felt dread form in the pit of his stomach. "Where's Otis?"

"He didn't make it." Samara answered as Shane fumbled with his words.

Hershel's breath picked up feeling the heaviness of the implication of the woman's words. "We say nothing to Patricia. I need her focused."

Without another word he retreated back into the house. His daughter Maggie wasn't in any better shape. Tears sprung to her eyes as she stood there numbly.

Samara watched as Rick embraced his blood brother. Shane responded to the hug weakly; he was still in shock and so, his movements came out lethargic.

"What happened?" Maggie asked unsteadily as she watched the two men. Lori stepped towards her and put an arm around her shoulder. She tried to provide whatever comfort she could.

"They kept blocking us at every turn." Shane shook his head, unable to look either of them in the eyes. He didn't want them to see thru his lies. "Samara diverted the walkers and made them follow her. It worked; we had the chance to run. But…some stayed behind and came after us. And then others joined. We had nothing left. We were down to 10 rounds." Shane chocked as tears gathered in his eyes. His mind was finally caching up to his actions. "Then he said he'd cover me and that I should keep going. So that's what I did. I just…I kept going. But I—" He paused, the salty liquid rolling down his cheeks. "I looked back and he..."

Rick took a hold of the man's shoulder and gave him a teary-eyed stare. There was no guilt or doubt in his eyes. "He wanted to make it right."

Shane nodded shakily, but his eyes flitted everywhere. His facial muscles twitched at every five seconds.

Rick, Lori and Maggie took Shane's erratic behavior as shock and wretchedness for Otis's sudden and horrifying departure, but Samara watched every twitch and every move the deputy made with grim shrewdness. Shane felt grief, but he also felt guilt not of a survivor, but of someone that purposely left a man behind to get eaten.

Samara had done nothing but think on her way to the farm. First came a gunshot, then Otis screamed in pain. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together. Two men with dozens of walkers at their backs and not enough ammo to destroy them all. One man running with a bum leg would have been overwhelmed before he could even reach the edge of the parking lot. But if he gave the walkers a distraction—something to give him enough time to reach the car with the heavy bags—he could survive and bring the medicine to the boy. A boy that he cared for more than some stranger's life. A stranger that put said boy in such a life-threatening state.

Samara wasn't an idiot and she wasn't blind. She knew what she heard and her gut feeling told her that Shane sacrificed Otis so he could live. He did murder to save a boy's life.

But Samara wasn't about to voice any of these thoughts. As she said, she wasn't an idiot and she valued her life above all else.

* * *

"Is his leg broken?"

Samara was with Maggie and Glenn in the kitchen looking over the comatose dog on the table. Maggie had agreed to inspect the dog, despite her sorrow. She probably needed something to do to keep her mind occupied. Samara hadn't wanted to take advantage, but the girl had insisted.

"No. My guess is that it's sprained." Maggie sniffled and leaned in her seat. "I'll bandage his leg. That's all that I can do. My father could do more later."

"Thank you." Samara watched as Maggie took some bandages out of the first aid kit at her side and proceeded to wrap it around the dog's hind leg.

"Why aren't the others here?" The marshal addressed Glenn who was seated opposite Maggie, stroking Alistair's fur.

"Carol wouldn't leave so everyone decided to stay there at least until morning. Maybe Sophia will show up…" He left his statement open. He wasn't sure about the girl anymore. Almost two days have passed and there have been no sign of her. The chances of finding her were fast waning for him.

Samara hummed deep in her throat. She didn't think Glenn would want to hear her opinion on the girl considering it wasn't optimistic at all.

"Do you think Carl will make it thru?"

Maggie shrugged faintly. "My father will try his best, but I can't guarantee anythin'. People ain't his usual patients."

Samara sighed. "At this point Glenn, we can only hope."

"Hope…" Glenn laughed hollowly and his eyes lowered. "It seems like forever since I felt that. We just can't get a break, can we?"

First Wiltshire, then Sophia and then Carl. And now this family's lost someone. It was a never ending wave of pain and sorrow.

"If you keep waiting for a miracle to happen, you'll just be left disappointed."

Glenn smiled dimly, his fingers ghosting over the black and white fur. "Then are we just supposed to give up?"

"I'm not telling you to do that." Samara leaned into her seat. "Keep hoping and looking for that silver lining, that's your prerogative. I, on the other hand, have no expectations." The corner of her lips upturned for a second. "I'm rarely let down this way."

"I think…" Glenn's eyes fleeted towards Maggie who was too focused on her work to notice his short ogle. "I'll keep searching for that silver lining."

Samara's lips stretched into a strange grin. Not an hour onto the farm and he was already eyeing the farmer's daughter. Now there's a plot for a bad comedy romance movie. The apocalypse with flesh-eating undead is neigh, boy meets girl, daddy has a shotgun ready to blast a hole into any interloper on his daughter's virtue and then…well, like all bad romances it probably ends sappy. Or horribly considering the world they lived in now.

"There." Maggie tied the bandage ends and gave the leg a short pat.

"Thank you." Samara picked the dog up and walked towards the living room. Before exiting the threshold, the marshal paused. There was something she needed to say. "Maggie, about the laughing earlier…I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

The young woman gave her a faint cheerless smile. "I really don't care about that right now."

The marshal gave her a small nod and left the kitchen. She stepped thru the halls and exited the house. Samara observed the group: Lori and Rick were on the front stairs, Shane was leaning against the truck and T-Dog was on a rocking chair.

"How's your arm?"

T-Dog opened his eyes and showed her his bandaged arm. "Better. I feel like I'm on cloud nine."

Rick watched with tired eyes as Samara place the dog on the porch. "Alistair, he alright?"

She nodded. "Just a sprain."

Samara's eyes slid to Shane as she descended the stairs. He was watching her from the corner of his eyes with a blank gaze. The marshal ignored him as she walked the length of her car to the trunk. With the keys, she opened it and searched for some food and water for herself and the dog.

Heavy footsteps stopped near the end of the car.

"Samara."

The marshal sighed. She knew that this would happen sooner or later. She was the only witness to the incident. "What is it, Shane?"

"Back at the school…" He tried to find his words as he shifted uneasily. "What did you see?"

Samara took out of a duffle a can of peaches, ham and a bottle of water. "You running. Otis being eaten."

Shane's eyes narrowed. The woman said one thing, but he could tell that she was thinking another. "Then what do you think happened?"

"Does it matter what I think?" Intense pale green eyes settled on dark ones.

_I know…_that's what her eyes told him. There was no judgment or satisfaction in her gaze, but she was no longer regarding him like before. Now there was just a guarded vigilance as one would gaze upon a violent dog behind a fence.

"I had no choice." Shane's voice wavered as the sordid memory came to. "We wouldn't have made it if—"

"Don't say it." Samara cut him off abruptly. "Because then it makes me a part of it. I would rather speculate and keep silent."

"But you understand, right?" He tried to voice his desperation. "You're no stranger to these sorts of things."

Samara froze and her eyes narrowed to slits. "And just what do you mean by that?" Her tone was positively flat.

"Rick told me what happened at the motel."

_Of course he did_, Samara internally sighed. She stepped closer to him, her voice lowering even further with a hostile edge. "If that is a threat, I'll tell you now that I do not respond well to them."

"No, dammit!" He spat, irritation overshadowing his misery for a second. Why was it so hard to talk to this woman? "I just…I'm just tryin' to make you understand why I did what I did."

"I don't care." She said simply. "Just because I've killed people doesn't mean you have to spill your woes to me. I'm not a shoulder to cry on."

Shane watched her with hollow eyes. They stood like that for a few minutes, and finally Shane nodded and moved away from her. He was both relieved and frustrated. He needed to speak the truth about what happened to someone that wouldn't hate him for what he did. And the only person that could wanted nothing to do with it.

Before he departed, Samara called out to him misleadingly soft. "And one last thing, don't even think of dragging me into your mess."

"Just as long as you keep your thoughts to yourself." He told her without turning, his voice gruff.

"Then we have nothing to worry."

Samara sighed as she watched him depart. He was such a sad sight; like watching a zoo animal.

_Oh well…_Samara just hoped that he would make up a good cover-up story. The last thing they needed was the Greene's throwing them off their property. But if it came to that, Samara wondered if the group would leave. She wouldn't.

With a shake of her head, she joined the others with her dinner.

* * *

Samara sat on the porch alongside T-Dog's rocking chair, staring off into the darkness when Hershel came out the door.

They had been waiting for over three hours, keeping their interactions to a minimum. It was a dreary night, and anxiety was running high. Alistair was now lying curled up by Samara's side after indulging himself with a bowl of canned ham.

Everyone rose to their feet when the farmer came outside, Maggie and Glenn right behind him. The old man was smiling which immediately told them that everything was alright. They just needed to hear it out loud now.

"He seems to have stabilized."

Rick let go of his wife's hand and embraced the farmer, his words dying out in his throat. He conveyed thru his actions what he couldn't in words.

Samara breathed heavily and leaned against the wall of the house. That was one disaster averted.

"I don't have words." Lori beamed at Hershel like he was the Savior himself and sniffled. Her tears were no longer shed in grief, but in joy.

Rick let go of the elder man and joined his wife's side, embracing her also.

"I don't either. Wish I did." Hershel's smile faded now that Otis's death finally settled into his mind. "How do I tell Patricia about Otis?"

The smiles on everyone vanished. All but one had forgotten about the fallen man. Rick thought on it and then looked to his wife.

"You go to Carl. I'll go with Hershel."

Minutes after Lori, Shane, Maggie, Rick and Hershel entered the house, Samara heard Patricia's anguished cries. The marshal had no desire to enter the house at this moment. T-Dog and Glenn seemed to have the same idea as they remained on the porch, trying to block out the elder woman's sobs.

The convalescing mutt placed his head on Samara's lap timidly. Callous fingers began threading thru his tangled mane making him relax. Samara's eyes were distant as she watched the fur tame under her hand.

"This was one hell of a day, huh…"

* * *

**Foot Note:** Already got ch. 6 and 7 done, I'm currently on 8. Will update in a few days.

Reviews and constructive criticism is always welcome...anyone?


	6. Life is Not Cherokee Roses

**Note: **So, they're at the farm finally. The show's timeline puts them at about two weeks of them staying at the farm, maybe. I'm gonna push that time a little further up to a month so some of the events are not going to happen in the same sequence as in the show. It's better this way, plot wise.

This chapter would cover up 'Cherokee Rose'. Not all the events in that episode will happen, like Lori asking Glenn for a pregnancy test. Glenn having sex with Maggie, that does happen.

And Samara and Daryl are finally gonna have some alone time. Not that kind of lone time, you pervs. Get your mind out of the gutter.

**PS:** Thank you guys for all your reviews! It really brightens my day when I see people that actually enjoy the crap I write. I know that some of you might be here just for the romance between Daryl and Samara, but to tell you the truth I don't see it happening in the 2nd season because of how I see it progressing story-wise. I don't want to rush it. Let's face it, Daryl is not the romantic type and neither is Samara. They have issues, go figure. But there is going to be bonding and some sparks along the way.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

_Samara was walking thru a white hallway._

_One each side was a wendigo, standing as still as statues. They were all watching her with milky, vacant eyes._

_Strangely, Samara wasn't afraid. She passed the lines of undead with barely any thought as thought they were docile sheep instead of man-eating monsters._

_At the end of the sterile hallway was a door. A red door._

_Samara walked towards it with dread in her stomach. She didn't know what was behind it, but she knew it wasn't good. Her nightmares were never pretty._

_She wondered who it was now. Her husband, the recurrent star in her dreams, or maybe her father. She even had a nightmare about her mother once, but the sight of her getting torn apart by walkers was more of a good dream than a bad one._

_Her fingers wrapped around the handle of the door and turned, exposing a nursery with a crib in the middle._

Oh Gods no…

Not this. Don't defile my memories with this.

_Her feet moved forward and she had no power to stop them. To stop this dream from continuing._

_Bare fingers curled around the bars of the crib. Inside was a small shape covered with a light blue blanket. Samara watched as the blanket created waves from the movements underneath._

_The sounds coming from the tiny form weren't human. They were the groans of the undead._

_With shaky fingers, Samara reached for the blanket. _

_She couldn't stop them from clenching on the material and pulling—_

* * *

Her body jerked awake. Pain exploded in her forehead.

"Fuck!" Her hands covered her throbbing temple.

"Shit!"

Opening her eyes, Samara came face to face with Glenn. He was cupping his nose, tears leaking from his eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Samara hissed at him angrily. Shit, her head was hurting. What was his face made out of, granite?

"What am I doing?!" Glenn watched her incredulously. "You head-butted me!"

"How the hell was I supposed to know you were standing over me?" Samara rose to a sitting position on the couch. Hershel had let her and the others sleep in the house, and Samara chose the living room area along with Alistair, Glenn and T-Dog.

The marshal gave the young man an accusing look. "Why _were_ you leaning over me? You get your kicks out of watching women sleep, you little pervert?"

"W-What?!" Glenn's voice pitched to high note. The last thing he needed was to be thought of as a pervert. "No! I was—I was just trying to wake you up! You were thrashing around and crying."

Samara straightened her back and her eyes narrowed. "I do _not_ cry."

"Well, it sure sounded like it." Glenn removed his hand from his nose and noticed the drops of blood. "Oh man, I'm bleeding."

The marshal scoffed. "Cry me a river."

She rose to her feet, still massaging her tender brow. Looking around, she saw no sign of Alistair or anyone else for that matter.

"Where's everyone?"

"Eating. It's seven in the morning." Glenn said grouchily. He was going to need a towel.

Samara's eyebrows rose. _I slept for that long? _

"Rick told me to wake you up before all the food was gone. Our group's in the kitchen."

Samara stretched her back and felt a throb shoot up her spine more intensely than yesterday. It seems that all that action from last night had finally caught up to her and it was now punishing her for her continual straining of her back. Pulling the pill bottle out of her pant pocket, she dry swallowed a painkiller and then marched towards the kitchen. Samara did not expect the sight that greeted her, one she hadn't seen since the end of civilization.

—People eating a hearty breakfast at the kitchen table.

She had to stop and just watch the scene with wonder. Whatever sadness plagued the group last night was gone. There were only smiles and lighthearted chatter.

Rick, Lori and T-Dog were seated at the table, leaving the Greene's and Shane unaccountable. The family was understandable, but Shane…he probably couldn't face anyone in the light of day.

"What was all that shouting?" T-Dog gave Samara and Glenn a raised brow. One had a reddish mark on their brow, the other a bleeding nose.

"We were discussing the importance of personal space." Samara grumbled as she plopped into an empty chair and took off her raggedy gloves, not even caring that her wedding band was on full display.

Glenn was about to point out that, that was his chair she was sitting on and his food she was currently shoveling down, but he thought it better. That glare she gave him after her abrupt awakening had choked some of his courage. After applying a few napkins to his nose, he sat on the only available chair and took a plate of food for himself.

Samara closed her eyes as she savored the scrambled eggs. It tasted like honey in her mouth. "This is _really_ good."

"Mhmm." Rick smiled as he took another slice of bread. "Almost forgot what homemade cookin' tasted like."

"How's your boy?" Samara asked between mouthfuls.

"Better." Lori smiled as she looked back towards the door of Carl's room. While she was anxious to go back, she needed to fill her stomach.

"Hershel said he was out of any danger." Rick threaded his fingers thru his wife's. "It's gonna take a week or two before he can get out of bed, but he's gonna make a full recovery."

Samara nodded. That was good.

Feeling a nudge at her legs, she looked underneath the table. Alistair was pawing at her feet and giving her wide hungry looks. Samara could see that the bandage was still on him. With a sigh, the marshal took a few last bites and placed the plate on the ground to which the dog ate ravenously from. She was full anyway; her stomach had needed less and less food these days.

"Did Hershel by any chance look over the dog?" She asked as she nibbled on a piece of fresh bread with butter.

Glenn answered after swallowing. "Hershel gave him the okay. Said that his hind leg was going to take a few weeks before it can heal and you should keep him from moving too much for at least a week."

"Anything else?"

"Uh…you need to put cold water on his leg twice a day to keep it from swelling. Hershel already did that this morning."

_Note to self: Thank the old man._

Rick's smile fell and his eyes turned serious. "They're holding a funeral for Otis this morning. They've asked us to attend."

"We will." Lori's grip on his fingers tightened. She was looking at each one of them without any room for argument. "All of us."

Samara returned her stare with lenience. While she thought that attending the man's funeral was an insult considering how he died, she agreed. It would seem suspicious otherwise.

"I'm gonna go check up on Carl." Rick swallowed the last of his bite and stood from his seat. "Then I'm gonna join you all outside."

* * *

Samara stood next to Andrea as the group and family was gathered around the symbolic grave.

The rest of Rick's people had arrived an hour after breakfast. Samara and the others were picking up rocks for the funeral when the loud motorcycle and vehicles appeared on the dirt road.

"Blessed be God, father of our lord Jesus Christ. Praise be to him for the gift of our brother Otis, for his span of years, for his abundance of character."

Samara listened to the eulogy with only an ear. Her eyes were kept on Shane, searching for any cracks or signs of a break down. The man was like a statue though, there was no emotion pouring out of him.

The sight of Shane's shaved head was peculiar to Samara. It reminded her of her honeymoon in India, where she watched as the son of a departed father shaved his head. She did not remember exactly why such a custom was practiced, but she could tell that it was in sign of respect. Samara didn't believe that Shane followed the same practices; his new buzz-cut was either done in guilt or on an unexplained impulse.

"Otis, who gave his life to save a child's, now more than ever, our most precious asset. We thank you, God, for the peace he enjoys in your embrace. He died as he lived, in grace." Hershel closed his bible and his sad eyes turned on the deputy. "Shane, will you speak for Otis?"

Brought out of his stupor, Shane shook his head. "I'm not really good at it."

"You were the last one with him." Patricia sniffled and pleaded with teary eyes. "You shared his final moments. Please, I need to hear_._ I need to know his death had meaning."

Shane was indecisive. He had already worked on a story, but thinking it was different than voicing it. His eyes skirted to Samara. She was watching him closely, but gave no sign to shut up or continue. She was simply waiting for his response.

Shane began speaking slowly.

Samara watched him carefully as he told the false story of Otis's final moments. There was bravery and self-sacrifice involved that made Samara's stomach twist in distaste. Since when did people talk so much before throwing themselves on the grenade? At least a bomb would offer a quick and painless death, but a hoard of walkers…It would be downright agonizing. Not many men would want to endure something like that.

Was Shane trying to paint Otis as a martyr? It would make the story believable in the grieving family's mind. No person would want to think different of their dearly departed, at least not at this hour. But the group…

The marshal really hoped that she was the only one that could see the faults in his story.

Shane's voice lowered to a gloomy tone. "Otis…He saved us both."

Samara felt the hairs at the back of her neck stand up. She knew that feeling; someone was watching her. Her eyes unglued from Shane and fleeted around. Who her gaze landed on surprised her. The redneck was scrutinizing her intensely. Samara straightened her back, feeling that primordial 'fight or flight' instinct rise in her throat like bile. When her fingers twitched towards her thigh gun, Daryl's eyes moved to Shane. Samara couldn't tell what the man was thinking; there was a stone wall erected in front of his eyes. But she did not like the way his eyes slid back to her. Samara could almost see the cogs turning in his mind.

Samara internally groaned. He was starting to _see_. And it didn't help that Shane kept looking at her like she was his anchor in a storm. She had really given the hunter too little credit.

Shane placed the rock on the grave and turned to Patricia. "If any death ever had meaning, it was his."

After Shane's last words, Hershel brought the funeral to an end.

* * *

Samara was sitting on the lush grass at the base of a giant tree with Alistair sprawled at her side. After the funeral, everyone had scattered. The group had left to unpack their belongings from the cars while Samara had needed some time for herself. She needed to think on what she'll do next.

Now that her debt was settled, she could leave…But she wasn't going to. There were good reasons as to why.

The marshal opened her eyes when she heard the sound of fibers of grass crunching underneath boot. Her focus settled on Rick Grimes walking towards her at a steady pace. His skin was still too pale for him to be wandering around.

"Takin' some time off?" Rick stopped in front of her.

"Hardly." She took her sunglasses off. "I'm thinking."

The man nodded in understanding. "On your next move?"

Her lips quirked. "You know me too well."

With an exhale, Rick sat next to her and patted Alistair's furry torso. His worn-out look traveled across the field and settled on the group setting their tents and Dale parking the RV in a reasonable location within the camp. For the first time in what seemed ages, he felt relief. They finally found a place to live. It didn't matter how they came upon it, they could stop and sleep without worries of walkers trying to bite their heads off.

This wasn't Wiltshire. The Greene's had lived here since the virus and barely had any contact with the undead. They were relatively safe.

Rick took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his temple. "So, when are you leavin'?"

"I won't be. I'm staying for now." Samara bent her knees and placed her elbows on them, fingers tangling ahead.

"Really?" His brows shot up. This was surprising. "All this time you've been rantin' about leavin' and now you decide to stay? If I didn't know you, I'd say you took a shine to us."

"If only you didn't know me…" She huffed, before her lips settled into a straight line. "I've decided that it's in my best interest to remain. I'm still not at a hundred percent and Alistair's not going to be of much use to me if he can't run."

"Besides, your son is going to take about a week to get on his feet, more so to fully recover." That shrewdness of hers darkened the green in her eyes. "A few weeks of sitting around, dozing in the sun doesn't sound so bad."

Also, the way Samara saw it, the Greene's were one man short. Otis had been the provider, the hunter of the family. She doubted any of the others knew how to hunt and they would need meat for the oncoming winter. Samara knew the schematics of hunting; she could ascertain a permanent place on the farm by offering her skill-set. And the Greene's would also need protection from outsiders and wendigos and none of them seemed capable of handling a gun too well.

The only thing she needed now was time. Time for Otis's death to blow over so she could slowly introduce Hershel to the idea of her residing with his family.

And Shane…She needed to be cautious when dealing with Shane. If he broke down and confessed his deeds, her chances would become void. She was pretty sure that the old farmer placed her in the same category as the group and that would not do. She needed Hershel to understand that she was _not_ a part of Grimes' group as soon as possible.

Rick nodded uncertainly. "If you're stayin' then we need to lay down some ground rules."

Samara leaned on the hard bark of the tree with a frown. They were back at this again. Why can't they just see to their own business and stay out of each other's way?

"You're not part of the group and you're not a part of Hershel's people. That leaves you by yourself. The way I see it, you can either cooperate or manage on your own." And he meant it this time. He would not help her with anything if she continued with her feral ways.

"What does cooperation mean to you?"

"Helping the group and the Greene's." Rick returned her solemn stare with his own. "No more fights, no more bargainin' for doing a task, no more thinkin' of only yourself."

Samara scoffed. She'll help the Greene's, there was no doubt in that, but Rick's group…that was a bit of a stretch.

"Why should I help your people?"

"Because you need us…" Rick took a deep breath. "And we need you."

A short skeptical laugh escaped her. "Now that I don't believe."

"The more skilled people there are, the more our chances grow. And trust me Samara, being ostracized and isolated is not an easy thing." His blues were ominous as he motioned towards the others. "They're startin' to realize that you're not like them. It won't take long for the others to get fed up with your bullshit and turn their backs on you." He was also getting tired of it.

"I can live with isolation." Her fingers disentangled and threaded thru Alistair's fur. "I've been doing it for almost three months."

"I'm sure you could, but everyone has their breakin' point." Rick's grip on his hat tightened. "Is it really that hard for you to work with others?"

Samara cursed and moved so that she sat in front of Grimes to emphasize her point.

"It's not about working together. It's about _trust_. I don't trust you people not to put my life in danger. How many times have you done that already? Thrice? In the span of two days, no less." The estates, the highway and then the high-school. There was only so much she could take.

"We all make mistakes." His eyes closed in wariness. He admitted it, they had done _many_ mistakes. Including entering the CDC which had been his idea. "Are you tellin' me you've done nothing wrong this whole time?"

"I've made plenty. It's not like I entered this world with a book of instructions." She could count on both hands how many dumb moves she did in the past and, from time to time, still did. "But I learned from them. Your people seem to have a problem with doing that."

"Then show them!" He hissed at her so unexpectedly that Alistair woke up with a startle.

Samara's eyes narrowed. "I'm not the leader here Rick."

Rick's anger deflated and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't do this on my own." He shook his head and Samara could see the exhaustion return in full force. "I can't be in two, three, four places at once. I can't protect everyone."

He couldn't do it for Jacqui or Sophia or his son.

"This group is on a thin rope, I know that. I can see it. One more mistake and everythin' will topple over." Rick shook his head firmly, that scorching look of his surfacing. "I can't let that happen. I _won't_."

Samara gave him an irritated scowl, but she spoke calmly. "These people are not your responsibility. Your family is the only thing you should worry about."

Rick chuckled without humor. "That's where you're wrong. We need each other to survive." He then lifted his shoulders hopelessly. "Otherwise, what's the point? We go all our own separate ways, never helping, then we'll go extinct in a short time. Even you can't survive all on your own, despite what you may believe. You're not indestructible."

Samara threw her sunglasses at a startled Rick and rose to her feet spiting curses in Navajo. That just pissed her off. She knew she was mortal, that at any moment she could die either by wendigo or some crazy bastard with a weapon. But that didn't mean she wanted to acknowledge it. That life was so much frailer now.

She also hated relying on others. Even before the plague, she preferred working alone and was irritated when the Marshal thrust other deputies on her as partners. But many times, such matters had saved her life.

Thoughts raced at a hundred miles per second in her mind, each one showing her a different scenario. If she complied, if she didn't, if she stayed, if she left. It was maddening.

Alistair whined lowly and lowered his head on his paws. He watched as his master ranted in a different language and aggravatingly paced in front of him and the sheriff like a caged animal.

A few minutes passed before Samara finally stopped.

"Alright…alright." She nodded along with the words, her gaze resigned and her throat dry. The disorienting thoughts in her mind all came to the same conclusion. She would have to cooperate. "I agree to your terms."

Rick exhaled lightly. Finally, they reached equal ground.

"But don't expect me to do a 180 in over a day." She glared at him sharply. Samara doubted that her deeply rooted views would change anytime soon or if ever, but she could try.

—It was time to rejoin what was left of civilization.

At least on the surface. Rick's group was nothing more than a necessity as of now. She really didn't need them, but if that meant building a bridge towards the Greene's, then so be it.

"Never said I would." Rick rose to his feet and handed her the sunglasses. "Come on, you should start unpackin' and settin' up your tent."

"I don't have a tent." She shrugged her shoulders at his puzzled look. "Didn't find one at the highway."

Rick placed his hat back on his head and looked over the camping sight. "I think Jacqui's old one is still with us. Dale probably has it."

* * *

With a grunt, Samara backed away and observed her work.

That woman Jacqui had an acceptable tent and Samara managed to put it upright with only some mild difficulty. She hadn't gone camping in quite some time and was a bit out of practice. With a sigh, she looked around the camp. Everyone seemed to be working on settling camp. Her tent was located on the outskirts of the group and it seems that the hunter had the same idea as his tent was at an adequate distance from hers.

Samara grabbed her backpacks and entered the one person tent. Not a moment later, Alistair wobbled inside and set himself near the entrance, so the sun could warm him. The marshal unfurled Jacqui's sleeping bag and laid on it. The food and clothing duffels were at her feet. Samara felt no desire to riffle thru them, her weapons were more important right now. She had to clean them and check their feed system.

With a sigh, she took out the two photos from her back pocket. In all the calamity of the last three days she hadn't had the chance to look upon them. She even forgot last night that they were still with her. With tenderness she stroked the faces of her family, wishing that even for a few minutes the world was right.

_Wishful thinking…_

The marshal shook the melancholy that threatened to darken her mood and placed the pictures in her backpack—they were safer there. She had work to do, no time for sentimentality. Samara collected every weapon she had, took a white top and rose to her feet. Rearranging the aviators over her eyes, she stepped over the dog and headed towards the wooden picnic table.

"Samara."

The woman in question turned and came across the sheriff. He motioned towards Otis's blue truck where Hershel, Shane, Andrea and Daryl were.

"We're gonna establish routes to search for Sophia. If you _want_ you can join us."

Samara could hear the underlying intent: join the meeting as the first step in being part of the group. With a roll of her eyes, she changed course and followed the sheriff. The new rifle was slung over her shoulder, while the white top was shoved in a jean pocket. The handguns were still strapped to her person, have been so for three days. She fleetingly wondered when she had stopped being bothered by the leather straps on her day in and day out.

"How long has this girl been lost?" Samara heard Hershel ask.

"This'll be day three."

Maggie approached them and placed a large map on the hood of the truck. "County survey map. It shows terrain and elevations."

"This is perfect." Rick approached the map and surveyed it with complete attention. "We can finally get this thing organized. We'll grid the whole area, start searching in teams."

Hershel shook his head. "Not you. Not today. You gave three units of blood. You wouldn't be hiking five minutes in this heat before passing out." He then turned to Shane. "And you push your ankle now, you'll be laid up for a month. You'll be no good to anybody."

Daryl grunted and readjusted his crossbow over his shoulder. "Guess it's just me."

Samara considered joining the search. Not because she wanted to search for the girl, but because she wanted to get familiar with the terrain. She needed to start reacquainting herself with hunting.

"And me."

Daryl's icy blues narrowed on her. "I don't need you slowin' me down."

She gave him a dry look. "Right. Because I slowed everyone down before."

The man scoffed and turned back to the map. "I'm gonna head back to the creek, work my way from there."

Samara heard him clearly. There was no 'we' in that sentence, only 'I'. She was alright with that, she was better off alone.

"Samara will go with you. I'm not lettin' either of you walk out there on your own." Rick said without question, also aware of the exclusion.

Both Samara and Daryl made disgruntled faces. Neither was looking forward to partnering up considering their past dealings. Samara was aware that most likely a fight—or several—would break out on their search.

Daryl was also thinking of something of the same nature and gave the woman a glare. First time he gets to be by himself after so many days and now he had to bring _her_ along. She was as worse as Shane. His distaste for her stemmed from the fact that even before speaking to him she had made up her mind about him being a 'redneck'. Not once she had tried to change her views. But it wasn't like he had given her any, and he neither wanted to.

He knew what he was, and he wasn't one to care for such trivialities as viewpoints. At least not from pig-headed mules like her.

"You two alright with that?"

Neither answered. Rick didn't need for them to verbalize it, he could see it in their eyes that they were not happy.

They would just have to suck it up. He couldn't have them at each other's throat anymore. If he wanted the group to remain stable, he needed those two to start cooperating. Forcing them together seemed like the only way. It might not be the best, but right now he was short on mediators.

Once the gathering was over, everyone left to do their respective tasks: Daryl and Samara into the forest and Shane on the highway with Andrea and Carol.

Samara readjusted her sunglasses as she picked up the pace to reach the hunter's side. Not too close and not too far away, mind you.

The man gave her a side glance before ignoring her.

"How much time do you need to be ready?"

"I'm already set." He grunted.

"Then give me a few minutes."

Without a word of acknowledgement, he continued on while Samara veered towards her tent. She needed to pawn Alistair off to someone as he was incapable of journeying with her. As she approached the tent lapel, Alistair raised his head in curiosity. Samara sidestepped him and entered her abode. Throwing away the white top, she checked the cartridges of her guns and filled them where there were missing gaps. Samara mentally noted to make an inventory of how much ammo she had when she returned. It wouldn't do if she was left without. Also, she needed to talk to Rick about what Shane said on target training. It was a bad idea in her opinion. Sound attracted dangers of all kinds.

_Really, don't these people ever listen?_

Without missing a step, she assessed what she was taking. Winchester rifle, three handguns, one silencer, one machete, a bottle of water and two power bars. Who knows how long she'll be staying out in the forest, better to have some nourishment with her.

Slinging a small shoulder bag with the rations over her shoulder and the riffle over it, she picked up Alistair and left her tent. The dog struggled at first, indignant, but then relaxed since it was futile trying to get out of her grasp. She approached T-Dog who was working on his tent.

"Hey, can you watch him?"

The man looked up at her and then at the dog and nodded.

The marshal placed the Collie on the ground, who immediately limped off and settled in the shade a few paces away from T-Dog. Samara gave him a stern look as she spoke.

"Behave. Don't wander around. If you do, I'll sprain your other leg."

Samara then heard an abrupt chuckle from the heavy man and saw how he shook his head in slight disbelief. "I can't tell if you hate that dog so much that you love him or if you love him so much that you hate him." He gave her an amused glance. "You're very contradictory with him."

Samara blinked and walked away without a response. For a second, she thought she heard T-Dog let out another chuckle, but dismissed it. _Love my ass…_

As she approached Daryl at the edge of the camp, the man gave her a glower. "Hurry up. You're waistin' time."

_Deep breath. Calm. _

Without a response, she walked past him and heard him follow. Neither felt the urge to speak as their reached the forest and disappeared into the foliage.

* * *

Two hours into their search and nothing. No sound. No tracks. No walkers.

Daryl watched his surroundings carefully, never faltering in his steps. The woman was behind him a short distance away. Up until now he neither saw nor heard any mistakes in her actions. She wasn't as quiet as him when stepping, but that was understandable. He had been hunting his entire life, the forest practically being his second home while she was a city dweller. Or so he thought. He didn't know much about her background other than the fact that she was a marshal and that she knew how to track.

Her skill was satisfactory. She had the grace of someone who had been doing it for years. Probably used it to find fugitives or maybe she hunted in her spare time, he thought.

Subtlety looking behind him, he observed her as she watched the verdant forest with hawk-like precision. People that were not used to hunting or have never tried it in their lives would have their eyes fleeting in every direction, never stopping in one place for too long. But she was patient, observing every patch of dirt and plant with care.

At least she wasn't entirely useless.

"Who taught you how to track?" The question blurted out of him before he could stop and he mentally berated himself for breaking the silence.

Her green eyes stopped on him with a high degree of flatness before moving away and continuing her observation.

Daryl scoffed and turned back. She could keep her silence then.

Minutes passed before he heard her low voice. "My father. Tracking was a male tradition in my family."

Daryl gave her a strange look from over his shoulder.

Samara gave a faint smirk. "Yeah, I know. My father always wanted a boy, but he got me instead." There was no bitterness to her tone, she was just stating fact. Her father had decided early on that if biologically she couldn't be his son then spiritually she'll be.

This had been the reason for her joining the army and then joining the Marshal service. Samara had never played with dolls and her usual entourage consisted of boys. She had spent her free time reading, playing baseball and going tracking with her father—the latter two activities usually seen in boys. Her grandmother had lectured her father on numerous occasions that this wasn't the way to raise a girl, but he never listened. He didn't see the benefits in the long run of playing house with miniature plastic figurines.

Her grandmother had been right somewhat. Half of her life she wished that she had been born male, the other half she tried to live up to her father's expectations as a 'son'. It wasn't healthy. This led to her having a tumultuous relationship with her father in her teen years which resulted in her signing up for the army as soon as she turned eighteen.

But she had forgiven him a long time ago since his atypical upbringing paid off in the end. She was still here after all.

"Who taught you?" She turned the question on him. She was internally surprised that neither had lapsed into anger as soon as the first words came out. Maybe it was the forest, Samara mused. It had a calm, peculiar feel to it. Or maybe it was the absence of the others around.

Daryl faced the path ahead. "My brother."

"Not your _pa_?" A dark brow rose, not being able to stop the mocking tone.

Daryl eyes narrowed as dark memories assaulted him. "No."

_I see…touchy subject_, Samara stored this information for later in case she ever needed it.

"Your brother, is he dead?"

"Don't know." He shrugged his shoulders impassively.

A dark brow rose. "You…don't know?"

"Didn't I just say that? Damn." He spat at her. "He got left behind in Atlanta."

"Didn't you go look for him?" _Was he that callous?_

"I did. He wasn't there. Son of a bitch freed himself and got away." There was a hint of awe at the end.

_What?_ Samara searched her memories on what Grimes told her about Atlanta. He had met a part of the group there and…there had been a hillbilly with them. One that had been restrained because he threatened to kill Grimes.

"The jackass that was cuffed to the roof?"

The hunter's shoulders tensed in irritation. "That 'jackass' is my brother. Watch what you say, woman."

Well, it really shouldn't surprise her that much. It seemed the asshole gene ran in the family. She wondered who the worse of the two was. Daryl or the other one who's name escaped her.

"Didn't Grimes tell you about this?"

She shook her head. "He just told me that someone was left behind." If there was a second story to that, she hadn't heard it.

Daryl grunted, but offered no further explanation. She could talk to Rick if she wanted to know more, he felt no need to elaborate.

Samara wondered how exactly Daryl's brother escaped out of a pair of steel handcuffs. She'd seen a lot of idiots in her marshal career attempt it, only to end up with torn skin, muscles or a broken thumb. Maybe he had had a key, but then he would have escaped sooner. The only other explanation would be someone either left him a key when the group left or…well, he did like all trapped coyotes do.

–That was a gruesome thought.

With a shake of her head, she dispelled all thoughts of Daryl's brother from her mind and concentrated on her surroundings.

* * *

Another two hours had passed.

Samara and Daryl were currently taking a short respite. The heat was building up at an alarming rate. Didn't matter that Samara was born in a similar heat infested state, she never had gotten used to it.

The marshal watched as Daryl tied up on a string some squirrels he had shot. He had caught five of them as they were trekking thru the forest. Samara would never admit it out loud, but she envied the casual manner in which he caught them. The man was a true hunter; no critters escaped his notice or his arrows.

Up until now she hadn't tried hunting anything. She hadn't felt the need to. Canned food had been her daily meal. She tried to put it off until there were no more canned goods to eat before trying to hunt. A part of her dreaded it since she was pretty sure she would botch it quite badly.

The marshal's thoughts turned dark as she wondered when the man would ask her about Otis. She knew he suspected something—Samara couldn't really understand how the others couldn't see it, but this man in front of her saw. Maybe he decided like her to keep his own council and not break the relative peace.

Samara took a swing of her bottled water. "How come you're still with this group?" That was something that had been nagging at her since she met him and even more now since she learned that Grimes left his brother stranded on a rooftop in Atlanta.

Daryl paused in his work and gave her a fleeting glance. "Why do you care?"

"Don't. Just making conversation."

Her answer was a shrug.

"Crowds just don't seem you type." She emphasized.

He tied another squirrel to the string, a bit more forcefully. "How do you know what my type is?"

"It doesn't take a genius to figure it out." Aside from the fact that his tent was outside the camp's grid or his general 'lone wolf' vibe, she couldn't _possibly_ conceive why she pegged him as a loner. "Doesn't it bother you that you're with the same people that left your brother to die?"

His hands stilled and his blues returned to her. His general irritation disappeared in favor of anger. "You just don't stop, do you?" He hissed dangerously. "You get your kicks out of annoyin' me?"

"Well, now that you mention it…" She drawled before her expression morphed into frankness. "I am actually curious as to why."

"Well I ain't obliged to indulge your curiosity."

"Wow. Fancy words." She made a mocking applauding gesture.

Daryl spat and threw the string of bounties over his shoulder. Definitely worse than Shane. "Christ, what the hell was Grimes thinkin' sendin' you off with me?"

"Trust me, I still ask myself that." The sheriff and his futile hopes. He probably believed that she and the redneck could come to an understanding if they spent enough time together. Futile hope indeed.

Samara watched as Daryl stalked off, eager to get back to his search and away from her forked tongue. With a heave, Samara rose from the log she had been sitting on and followed. She had been sincere in her question. She couldn't understand why he remained. Grimes dealt him a grave offense. She would have shot him for it.

But if Daryl thought that his sibling was still alive considering that there was no anger in his words, then maybe that was what kept him around the group. That and general survival. Having meat shields provided a better chance at not getting bit. It couldn't possibly be a sentimental reason.

Samara shook her head. Such a complicated redneck to figure out.

* * *

Daryl suddenly went rigid. Samara stopped in her tracks and sharpened her hearing and sight. There was nothing in the area to alarm her. Just birds and the occasional squirrel.

"What is it?"

Daryl didn't answer her and stepped to his right towards a dense undergrowth. For a moment, he thought he saw something odd. Swatting the green leaves and small pines out of the way, he made enough room to see the oddity that had captured his interest.

—It was a house.

Samara stepped alongside him and watched the grey abode with mild interest.

"We're checkin' that house." Daryl said as he loaded his crossbow with an arrow and stepped into the clear field.

The marshal pushed her sunglasses over her forehead and unsheathed her machete and muffled gun. She observed the area around her. The property was surrounded by a simple wooden fence that was almost hidden by the uncut grass. The house itself looked old and abandoned. Of course, how abandoned they would find out in a few moments.

"Stay behind me." Daryl leveled his crossbow as they stepped on the porch.

Samara rolled her eyes. Even at the end of the world, men still had to beat their chests and act like cavemen. But at least if a walker decided to surprise them, then Dixon would take the blow.

Without a shred of grace or subtlety, Daryl kicked the double doors open. The noise it produced made Samara wince.

"Couldn't you, I don't know, try the handle first?"

Daryl slowly turned towards her, a glare darkening his pale irises.

"Just a thought." She shrugged nonplussed.

With a deep breath to calm his temper, the hunter carefully walked forward. Daryl almost cursed out loud at the squeaky floorboards. This house was old as dirt and it was verbalizing it to everyone that stepped foot in it. Both hunter and marshal checked the first floor rooms carefully. The house seemed stripped of almost all its furniture and any other accessories. It looked like someone had been in a hurry to leave.

Samara motioned to Daryl that she was going up the stairs and surprisingly he let her. Carefully, she stepped on the rickety stairs as she ascended. At the second floor, she found four doors—all closed. With the butt of her machete she banged on the first door several times and listened for any sounds.

Nothing.

Carefully, she checked each room and was pleasantly surprised to find them all in the same state as the ones below. With a sigh, she settled on the bed in the master bedroom. This was a waste of time, she thought, there wasn't even anything salvageable left in the house.

Samara didn't even blink when she heard footsteps in the hall, but she did aim her gun at the open door. Once Daryl came into view, the man tensed at the sight of the weapon and his crossbow was aimed at her in a knee-jerk reflex.

They stayed like that for several moments, before Samara quirked a brow and lowered her gun. "You never know."

With an aggravated grunt, Daryl lowered his crossbow. "Think Sophia's been here."

"How do you figure?"

Daryl leaned against the door threshold. "Found a can of tuna that's been opened a day or two ago and there's blankets in the kitchen pantry."

"Could be anyone." She dismissed it.

The hunter shook his head. "Pantry's too small for an adult."

"Well, it's not like it matters. If the girl was here, she isn't now. Doubt she will come back."

"She could." With a grunt, the man pushed away from the door and walked back into the bowels of the house.

Samara followed after a moment. She was beginning to wonder if Daryl actually believed the girl was still alive.

* * *

Daryl was writing on the kitchen table a message for Sophia with a marker he found lying on the floor. If the person that had lived here was her and she would come back, a little bit of reassurance would do her some good.

_**Sophia, stay here and hide in the pantry. I'll be back tomorrow. Mama.**_

Samara watched him coolly as he scribbled. Every now and then the ink would run out and he would almost flatten the marker against the hard surface in annoyance.

With a roll of her eyes, Samara left the house via the back exit and waited for him outside. The marshal watched the wild vegetation surrounding the house with detachment. Everything was so still; it would have made another person nervous, but Samara was grateful for it. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. The smell of summer and wild grass hit her olfactory senses and calmed her nerves. A small genuine smile spread over her lips. This was one of those rare moments where she had peace of mind, where nothing could disturb her.

"Quit your daydreamin'."

…Except for that.

Samara let out a heavy breath and her eyes opened in time to see the hunter pass her by. The marshal watched as he slowed down near a bush where a white flower was perched atop it like a shining beacon. The hunter didn't move on as Samara would have believed, but actually stopped and his callous fingers touched the delicate white petals, stroking them gently.

A dark brow rose in disbelief. It was disturbing to see gentleness come from a man like him.

His fingers traced the stem on the flower and plucked it at its base.

"What's with the flower?"

Daryl froze, apparently forgetting the fact that he had an audience. He cursed himself again for his lack of attention. His mind had been completely absorbed by the plant held in his fingers. "Cherokee Rose."

She gave him a blank look.

Daryl shook his head. "Christ, aren't you an Indian?"

"Last time I checked." She deadpanned, but then her brows furrowed. "I know what that flower is. Question is, what's your interest in it?"

His icy blues returned to the fragile piece in his hand. Why did he pick it up? The Rose was a sign of hope for the Cherokee mothers walking the Path of Tears; it was a sign from the gods for them to be strong as their children were dying from exposure, disease and starvation.

A single Cherokee Rose bloomed right in this place, where Sophia might have been. Was this a sign to not give up, for him and for the mother? He took it as one.

It was in this moment that his heart and mind became certain that the girl was still alive.

"I guess it's better than lookin' at you." But just because he took it as a sign didn't mean he was going to share it with this cynical woman who would most likely laugh in his face.

Samara's brow twitched and she sneered like she sniffed a particular bad odor.

"We're headin' back." With that he started off towards the forest.

"Already?" Samara's irritation faded somewhat and she looked towards the sun. It was off the center of the sky which meant it was past noon. She had thought they would be searching until nightfall.

He nodded. They had a good find today and he caught several squirrels for dinner. It was enough.

* * *

This time it only took two hours for them to reach the camp and Samara was grateful for it. Her calf muscles were protesting madly. She hadn't walked this long since she found Wiltshire and back then she barely remembered the discomfort. She had popped another pill to relieve herself of the pain.

Samara observed the camp from a distance. It seemed that everyone settled in nicely and were currently doing their chores. She couldn't see Alistair anywhere, but that didn't alarm her.

Daryl was steps ahead of her eager to retell his find and give the flower to Carol, although that last part made him a bit anxious. He wasn't all that good with kind gestures.

With a last frown to the redneck's back, Samara approached Andrea who was sitting at the picnic table eating from a small can of soup. "What time is it?"

The blonde checked a small wristwatch she kept in her pocket. "About 3:00 PM."

They stayed that long in the forest? "Anything interesting happen?"

Andrea shrugged and gulped down on a spoonful. "Walker in a well."

Samara paused and a dreary look appeared behind her sunglasses. "Is this one of those 'Timmy fell down the well' jokes?"

"No." Andrea shook in amusement. "I mean we literally found a walker in a well." She pointed off towards the object in question. "We sealed it off, though. There were…_complications_ when we tried to get it out. Best to never drink from it again."

Samara stood there a few seconds before, "Huh."

And with that she walked to her tent, eager to get rid of the excess weight she had on her and start cleaning her weapons.

* * *

Not even ten minutes in that Rick decided to grace her with his presence. The sheriff crouched low on the ground opposite her and watched as all her guns were placed around her, some in pieces.

Samara noticed from a quick peek that his signature hat was gone which she found a bit off putting. He didn't look whole without it.

"Daryl told me about the house." His elbows rested on his bended knees. "Said he was gonna check it back tomorrow. You up for it?"

She shrugged as she wiped the Glock's barrel. "Why not." She still needed time to get comfortable with the area, and today hadn't been so intolerable in that man's company.

"I hope nothin' happened."

A faint smirk appeared. "You mean with me and Dixon, or just in general?"

Rick gave her a look.

"Nothing of note." She mused as she inspected the clean Glock. She nodded. It would do.

"Good. I hope it stays that way." Rick watched as she picked up another handgun and started disabling it. The next few moments were going to be a struggle with her. "Samara, I'm gonna need your guns."

"No." She said without pausing from her work.

"You heard Hershel."

"I don't care."

He breathed out deeply, feeling his tension rising. "Samara, you can keep the machete and if problems arise we can get our guns back. You can have them when you're goin' off the farm."

It was only then that she stopped and gave the man a serious look. "Strategically speaking, how good do you think that idea is, sheriff?"

"Not very, I know." The time getting in and out of the house with guns for so many people would create a clutter. The absence of his gun at his hip made him feel bare and vulnerable. "But it's his land, his rules. I don't want Hershel throwin' us off his land just because you decided not to cooperate. There are more people here at stake than just you."

"What about Fort Benning?" Wasn't that where they decided to go?

"I don't know." To be honest, he hadn't thought of Benning in some time, not since Sophia disappeared and now—"Hershel expects us to leave when Carl gets better. I've asked him to reconsider, but…I don't know."

It was inevitable, Samara thought. This place would never be a permanent one, despite what Rick may have deluded himself into thinking. He relied on the decency of human nature in a world where there was barely any left.

"Did you really believe he would let you stay here?"

He chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, I did."

"Grimes, these people have no idea what it's like out there. From what I learned from the sisters, they believe that the walkers are just _sick_ people."

Rick gave her a startled look.

"Yeah, I know." She snorted grimly. "They think there's a cure for it. That all of this is just passing and that the world will return to normal."

The sheriff closed his eyes and leaned back on his haunches. Well, that certainly changes things. If Hershel thought that the virus was just transitory then Rick understood why the farmer didn't see the reason to let them stay on his land. If Hershel knew just how bad things were, would that change his mind? Probably not. The old man was stubborn. It would probably take something close to a real life demonstration for him to change his mind and Rick had no intention of bringing walkers here.

He'll just have to try and speak to him again. Force him to see with words.

Rick extended his hand and Samara knew what he was asking for. With a grimace, she handed her guns over. Every fiber in her being screamed at her that this was wrong. That she should hold onto the objects that have saved her life more than once. But Hershel…If she wanted to assert her place among his people she had to comply with his wishes.

A spark of hate was beginning to ignite for the old man.

Before Rick could leave the tent with her belongings, Samara's flat voice reached his ears. He internally sighed. He thought that she relented far too easily and now he knew that she was about to argue again.

"What did you think of the funeral?"

Rick turned towards her, confused. He had not expected that. "What do you mean?"

Samara watched him closely and he would be lying if he said he didn't feel unnerved by the intensity in her eyes. She was searching for something and he didn't understand what. A few beats passed before her usual indifference blanketed over, making her appear as though nothing happened.

"Nothing." Samara's irises lit up then in remembrance. "Earlier, what did Shane mean about teaching your people how to shoot?"

"They're gonna need to know, Samara." Even she should realize that.

"I get that." _Somewhat_. She didn't trust the majority of them not to shoot a toe off. "But I do hope you won't do it here or in the immediate vicinity."

Despite how civil her tone seemed to be, Rick heard the precarious edge to it.

"Shane found a good spot two miles away from here. Me and him, we'll be instructin' the others tomorrow mornin'."

_That's not enough_, Samara's mind said. They needed to be at least five miles away from here. "Can't you do it farther away?"

"No."

_Well…that was definite._

Samara warily wondered if Shane was up to the task. It had only been a day at most since he killed Otis and putting him in a position for him to possibly relapse was not a good idea. But Rick could not know this and such made his decision.

At least the sheriff would be there. This way if anything _did_ happen, he would be there to stop it. Hopefully.

With a goodbye nod Rick left the tent. She truly was too paranoid for her own good, the sheriff thought. If what Shane told him about sound attracting walkers, then they were safe here. The gunshots wouldn't be coming from this vicinity, so no undead would be coming for the farm.

He then suddenly frowned, remembering her inquiry. Was there something at the funeral that he had missed?

That dreaded feeling at the pit of his stomach flared again. When Shane had returned, he was carrying Rick's Colt. He had given it to Otis, not Shane. There was this small rotten, nagging uncertainty in the sheriff that he had deliberately shot down last night. His friend had just returned with the supplies needed to save his son and he wasn't about to go digging into what exactly happened there anytime soon…or ever.

* * *

**Foot Note:** Are the TWD characters in character? 'Cause I really don't want to screw them up. I find writing Daryl a bit of a strain and I need to know if I got him down.


	7. Mountain Goat Plans for Winter

**Note:** So this would be the 'Chupacabra' and in between this episode and 'Proper Secrets'. Not everything that happened in that episode is gonna happen here. Like Daryl's fall off the horse and Carl getting on his feet (let's face it, he was shot in the gut, he'd probably need a few days until he can walk). Oh, and Glenn doesn't discover the barn full of walkers yet.

**PS:** It seems that once I announced the lack of romance I immediately lost a follower. Huh…If that isn't a kick in the vagina I don't know what is. Can't blame him/her though, I'm kind of the same. I lack any romance in my life so stories about favorite character finding love and all that are what fuels my heart.

But you have to understand, I've read a lot of shotgun romances that I just **can't** push two characters together without a good fucking reason and knowing of each other. Life doesn't work that way, not even in fiction. I try to keep things as real as possible.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

The rest of the day and night had passed slowly, leading to morning. It was the first time in three months that Samara had not felt the immediate need to watch her surroundings every few minutes. This was a mistake on her part. She could not be lulled into a false sense of security even though every muscle in her body wanted to—to just stop and rest. If she listened to it, she would be signing her death warrant.

Always be vigilant—that was her motto in this new world. Had followed it to the letter these past months and it had kept her alive. It would be foolish of her to stop now just because she was in a location where walkers didn't frequent, judging by the old farmer's words.

Samara had taken care of Alistair's hind leg early in the morning and left him with Carol before joining the others at Grimes' car. Rick was organizing the teams and the areas which they will walk and mark. As Grimes said last night, she was paired with Dixon. Rick was with Shane—naturally—and Andrea with T-Dog. For a moment, Samara wondered why Carol, Lori or Glenn weren't pitching in. Dale was understandable, he was the sentry and he was old. But Glenn and the women…It's Carol's daughter they were searching for, shouldn't she help? And just because her son was bedridden didn't mean Lori was now indispensable. Rick had said that the boy was out of danger, so there was no excuse for her absence.

And as for Glenn…she had no idea why he was remaining.

"Everyone's getting' new search grids today. If Sophia made it as far as the farmhouse Daryl and Samara found, she might have gone further east than we've been so far."

Samara was faintly surprised when the young man, Jimmy, offered his help in the search for the girl. Rick would not shirk an opportunity like that and readily accepted his help.

"Nothin' about what Daryl and Samara found screams Sophia to me." Shane said from his position inside the car. The skepticism was blatant in his tone. "Anyone could have been holed up in that farmhouse."

"I said the same thing." Samara grumbled as she readjusted her sunglasses.

"Whoever slept in that cupboard was no bigger than yay-high." Daryl motioned a certain height.

"It's a good lead, either way." Andrea said as she nodded approvingly at the hunter. Daryl not used to such gestures, did as his instincts demanded—he ignored it.

Shane shook his head in disapproval and Samara hid her displeasure behind a mask of apathy. _Another day wasted on searching for a dead girl_, their thoughts resonated.

"We're gonna head over this ridge." Daryl pointed on the map. Dale walked up beside him with the gun bag and Samara's gun holsters and rifle. "Get a bird's eye view of everythin'."

"Good idea." T-Dog said as he grabbed a gun from the bag Dale placed on the hood of the car. "Maybe you'll see your chupacabra up there too."

"Chupacabra?" Rick's eyebrows shot up.

Samara paused in her work of getting the holster around her shoulders. _The reptile-kangaroo hybrid in the Americas that sucks blood?_

"You never heard this?" Dale interjected as he passed around some of the guns. "Our first night in camp, Daryl tells us that the whole thing reminds him of a time when he went squirrel huntin' and he saw a chupacabra."

Jimmy started chuckling, which only aggravated Daryl further as he was the center of attention. "What are you brayin' at, jackass?"

The young man stopped and gave the hunter a skeptical look. "You believe in a blood-suckin' dog?"

"Do you believe dead people walkin' around?"

_Touché._

Samara was adjusting the straps and guns when she heard Daryl say something about slurpees. She had zoned out for a few minutes as she equipped herself and wasn't aware of the conversation in front of her.

Before she could ask, the hunter walked away, his path set.

Samara followed as she threw the rifle over her shoulder, already dreading the new day.

* * *

They had about half an hour before they reached the house, Daryl calculated. This time the trek there was shorter than yesterday. They knew where to go and didn't waste time dawdling.

Daryl hoped that the girl went back to the house. The more the days stretched on, the harder his job will be to find her. He really hoped that she didn't go off grid. There was only so much land he could cover.

"So…" He heard her deceptively casual tone. "Chupacabra."

Daryl's eyes closed for a few seconds. He just _knew_ she would bring it up sooner or later. He had hoped that it would be later or not at all.

"Yeah, I believe in it." He continued on when he saw her open her mouth to retort. "And before you start mouthin' off, no, I don't give two damns what you think. If that makes me an idiot, then you're no better. Wendigos…" He snorted.

Samara huffed indignantly. "I wasn't going to say anything of that sort. And just so you know, I don't believe that the undead are actual wendigos. That would be stupid."

It was all well and good when she read old legends and myths, but to believe them…That was another matter entirely.

"And secondly, this chupacabra of yours," She paused for effect. "…did it have a sombrero on?"

Daryl was two seconds away from putting an arrow into her head. It was infuriating how she managed to get under his skin time and time again, and she barely knew him. His brother was the only person that could aggravate him to this degree.

Daryl sped up his pace when she starting cackling like a hyena.

_Damn squaw._

* * *

Daryl kicked a chair into the wall with a curse when he found the house empty. No one had been there since the both of them yesterday. He could feel the woman's eyes burning into him and he didn't want to turn around and face her. Daryl didn't want to see the smug look on her face that said 'I told you so'.

"Were you really expecting for her to be here?"

Daryl looked over his shoulder mentally prepared for her attitude, but found no trace of haughtiness—just a somber air that threatened to suffocate him.

"Tch. You're a fool."

And Daryl responded in the only way he ever did when vulnerable. "Better a fool than a cold-blooded bitch like you."

She didn't even twitch at his attack like she normally would, which only served to aggravate the hunter further. It was the only tell she gave when his words got to her and right now he would do anything to get that response. He needed an excuse to vent his anger.

"At least I have reason. You seem to lack any."

"Reason…" He scoffed. "I wouldn't put you and reason together if my life depended on it."

She frowned. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Really? Was she that blind to her unfounded dislike of him?

"Think it thru, since you have _reason_ and all that." He pushed past her and headed outside, leaving Samara to look after him with a veiled dumbfounded expression.

* * *

What _had_ he meant by that, Samara wondered as she followed him.

She was no creature of impulse or irrational behavior. Everything that she had done was calculated and weighted on its pros and cons. Except for that unfortunate incident with the adolescent boy, she had never done anything _stupidly_. Even going to the high-school—she had gotten ammunition and a riffle out of it.

Samara stewed in her thoughts as Daryl led the duo towards the ridge he had been speaking of at camp. The marshal was aware that the ground beneath her feet had started to tip and soon they had started climbing instead of walking, but she became rather peeved when the climbing the ridge proved to be an almost downright vertical climb. She had fought with Dixon on whether or not to chance it—she hadn't wanted to while he insisted on it. He had even gone far enough to say that he understood why she didn't want to climb—she'd probably break a nail or something along those lines.

Halfway up, Samara ruminated on the thought that maybe she should have just waited for him down instead of letting herself be goaded by him.

Daryl and Samara had to cling onto roots and trees to pull themselves up. Every now and then, one of them would slide a foot down, the earth being rather loose in some parts. With every step, Samara felt that old throb in her lower back and almost growled out loud when she couldn't even reach for her pill bottle in fear of losing her footing.

"Hurry up." Daryl said once he reached the top and observed her slow ascend. She still had a way to go.

"I am." Samara hated the fact that her breath was audible enough to reach the redneck's ears.

"Like hell, you're too slow." He said impatiently, already looking ahead. He was seriously considering leaving her behind. She could just follow his tracks.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She scowled as she grabbed a tree root to pull herself up. "Let me grow hooves so I can climb like a mountain goat."

"It _would_ suit you." He told her sardonically. "That along with a pitchfork."

She scowled at him, but didn't retort.

"I'm gonna be just a few feet away." The moment the words left his mouth, he disappeared from Samara's vision.

"I'll miss you, _truly_." She hissed to herself.

With frustration and soreness clouding her judgment, she didn't notice that the tree she grabbed onto was loosely rooted into the ground. Samara's mind went blank when the tree gave way and she felt gravity do its work. The marshal let out a soundless scream as the she slid across the earth in rapid succession. Her fingers dug into the ground with fervor, grabbing onto anything that would stop her descent. She knew that if she didn't stop soon she was going to reach the bottom and most likely break a bone or two…or die.

She mentally cursed when the path below her was free of any kind of stable plant as they all either slipped from her grasp or broke at the seams. Samara almost let out a cry of relief when her fingers grabbed hold of a batch of woodland vines and her drop stopped abruptly. Not even a second later pain shot up her arm. The sharp vines had slid across her gloved palm furiously and tore the fabric and the skin beneath. She saw that some of the vines were blotched with vivid crimson.

_Fuck._

Samara was frozen in fear, but she knew she couldn't remain like this—the vines could snap at any moment. Her brain worked fanatically and she noticed that she had only slipped a couple of meters. She still had a long way to go down, but she did not entertain the fought of descending again, so she looked up ahead. She did _not_ want to call out to Dixon. She wasn't in that immediate danger and besides, he had already saved her once. She wasn't a goddamn damsel in distress!

On her left were several trees with thick vines that she had used in her climb. With a deep breath, she dug her feet into the ground securely and stretched out her injured arm towards the closest tree. Unfortunately the trunk was too far away, but its roots were in immediate distance. Her fingers and the vines were separated by merely a few inches and Samara groaned when she came to the conclusion that she'll have to propel herself to them.

The marshal took a deep breath before she loosened her left foot and moved it upwards so it bended at the knee. She dug her boot into the earth deeply. That foot was her propeller; if the earth underneath it gave away, she would fall. Her other foot she loosened from the ground and Samara internally panicked when all the movement broke some of the vines. Samara prayed to the Holy People that they wouldn't give in, not just yet.

When none of the other vines broke, Samara went back to work. Her whole body felt on fire, the adrenaline warming her system to an insufferable degree.

_This is it_, Samara thought with dread and excitement mixed together.

With two deep breaths she applied all the force in her body in her left leg and pushed herself upwards, her left arm already stretched and ready to grab hold of the vines. Her right leg was loose from the earth and her right hand let go of the thin vines. For a second Samara was in the air, nothing to hold her down. She even felt the earth beneath her left foot give way at the added weight.

With a pain filled grunt she caught the wide vines with her injured hand and stuck to them like a baby monkey to its mother. Her other hand immediately came up and wrapped its way around a more flexible creeper.

The marshal closed her eyes and let out the breath that she had been holding. She did it.

Her eyes opened to look up towards her goal.

_Now comes the hard part._

* * *

Daryl had lost track of time as he stared out into the valley. The ridge gave him a good view of the forest. He could even see the creek they had followed at the highway. It was a good thing he came here, now he had a better understanding of the territory.

His mind was mentally mapping areas to search in the next few days when he heard a rustle and a groan behind him followed by the sound of a body hitting stone. His eyes rolled, it seems the woman finally decided to join him. Took her long enough. He'd seen children climb faster than her.

He was about to tell her that when he turned around, but stopped short once he noticed blood on the ridge's grey plateau. Blood in the shape of a handprint.

The woman was on her back, breathing heavily with sweat pouring down her face. One of her legs was bended while the other was dangling over the edge. Her clothes were dirty and he could see that her left palm was torn with red painted all over her glove.

"Shit, what the hell did you do?" He rushed to her and snaked his arms under her armpits to pull her away from the ledge.

Samara hissed at his actions as they put a strain on her already bruised body. "Let me go, dammit!"

Daryl did and placed her upper half gently on a large rock. Carefully, he slung the rifle away from her shoulders and placed it on the ground. Samara pushed against him with her free arm when he took a hold of her injured hand and started to peel the glove off to see the extent of the gash.

"Stop that." He warned her when a cherry-brown boot crashed into his shin.

"I don't need your help." The dirt on her face and clothes, along with the disheveled hair made her look like a wild woman.

"Fine, do it yourself then!" He bellowed as he stepped away from her.

Panting, Samara watched the hunter pace like a trapped animal. She could practically see the irritation wafting out of him. Her green eyes tore from his form and looked down to her hand. It was throbbing badly and shaking uncontrollably now that the adrenaline left her.

With a hiss, she carefully peeled the glove off her burning hand and grimaced when she saw the state of her palm. It was worse than she initially thought. The climb had opened the gash further leaving the skin torn off and rivulets of blood flowing freely, but at least it didn't get to the muscles. It troubled her when she saw that dirt was mixed up with the blood. If she didn't treat it soon, an infection would set in.

With a sigh, she looked at the glaring hunter. She hadn't brought any provisions with her this time, something she needed to rectify in the future. "You don't by any chance have a band aid, do you?"

Her answer was his narrowing eyes.

Before Samara could rip off a portion of her once light brown shirt, a rag was dropped in her lap. Samara looked up to Dixon, but he was adamantly looking at anything but her.

"Wrap that around your hand." He said gruffly.

Samara inspected the piece of material half expecting for it to be caked in mud, but it was relatively clean. She said nothing as she wrapped the material around her palm, not even giving the hunter a grateful look. Another hiss escaped her once the coarse material touched her open wound. It stung like a bitch.

"What happened?"

"Grabbed a faulty tree." She tied a knot at the back of her palm using her teeth and free hand. "Broke my fall with some vines which also cut my hand."

"Next time watch your footin'."

She nodded absentmindedly as she picked up her rifle and rose to her feet. Her knees were shaking so bad that that Samara had to grab the rock behind her to steady herself.

Daryl didn't offer her any help as he knew she would just hit him again. When dealing with wounded animals it was best to leave them be. At this point he didn't see any difference between Samara and a mountain lion—they would both bite his hand off if he offered it.

Samara threw the rifle back over her shoulders and pulled out the pill bottle from her pant pocket. She wasted no time in dry swallowing one as she approached the edge of the plateau. Gods, what a view. Forest and green fields all around. Any other time it would have been a breathtaking sight. Samara could see the farmhouse Daryl and she found, along with Hershel's farm way out in the distance. There were another few houses miles away.

But all her thoughts came to the same conclusion.

"You're never going to find that girl."

Daryl frowned at her back, but did not reply. He did not want to start an argument right now.

"There's a path I saw that can take us down." He said as he moved towards the side of the plateau. "It's gonna take longer than just climbin' down, but you're not in any condition to do it."

With a disgruntled look at her hand, Samara followed Daryl. She had just known that it was going to be a shitty day.

* * *

Samara was surprised when the path Dixon had been leading her too was a creek. She could hear the soothing sound of rushing water and Samara was relieved that she would be able to clean the wound.

Not even two minutes later they came upon it. The creek was in a shallow valley and they would have to climb down three meters to reach it. Daryl went ahead first and had to use vines and small pines to reach the creek ground safely. The valley walls weren't as treacherous as the ridge, but there was still a problem—if the ground floor had consisted of earth and grass they could have run down towards it, but unfortunately it was slippery stone that greeted them.

Samara was searching for the easiest accessible path when Daryl shouted up to her. "Come on down, I'll catch you."

The marshal just gave him a blank look before going back to her search.

Daryl cursed under his breath and tried again. "Just trust me."

Samara scoffed. "I _don't_ trust you."

"Shit, woman!" The hunter kicked a stone in frustration. "Then slide down and I'll break your fall."

Samara scowled and told him in detached calm, "I'm not an invalid, I can climb down."

"With what, one hand?" He pointed toward her makeshift bandage. "You try with both, you're just gonna make the injury worse." His finger then motioned to his feet. "Slide your ass down here!"

With a curse, Samara took the rifle off her shoulder and threw it at him. Daryl caught it expertly and slung it over his shoulder. He then planted one foot on the earth wall and one was wedged between two large stones so he wouldn't slip once her body made contact with his. The hunter hunched his back, planted one hand on the loose earth and the other was held in anticipation to catch the woman.

Samara crouched low until her bottom hit the cool ground and she took a deep breath. If Dixon lied and would let her fall on the creek stones, she'll kill him and blame it on a walker.

With a push, Samara stretched her uninjured hand behind her as a break while the useless one was cradled at her chest. Sliding down, she could feel every bump and stone lodged into the earth ripple harshly across her lower half. Thank the gods she was on painkillers otherwise she would be howling in pain.

With a grunt, Daryl caught her around her waist and had to pin her to the soil with his body to stop her from hitting the creek.

With a breath of relief, Samara unclenched her hand from the earth and her legs found purchase on the stony ground. She made sure she was rooted right before pushing the hunter off her.

Daryl disentangled from her immediately as if she were hot coal. He even took a few steps to the side just to be sure. With a low huff, he rubbed his cheek on his shoulder in attempt to wipe off the heat that accumulated there. He desperately hoped that his embarrassment wasn't noticeable in the form of scarlet cheeks.

Daryl mentally criticized himself that he should have found a different way to get her down. The position they had been in was one that he hadn't experienced with a woman in a _very_ long time and it made his body react almost instantly. For a moment, he had felt all of her upper half against him— the warmth of her body, her breath ghosting over his throat, her breasts pressed against his chest. Daryl just thanked God that his lower half was nowhere near hers…he probably would have dropped her in a second.

Samara was busy brushing herself off to notice his distress. Unlike the hunter, Samara had no problem with being _physically_ close to someone. Well, maybe a little considering it was the redneck she had been pressed up against. He was the last person she wanted to be that near to.

"Come on." He broke the tense silence and motioned for her to follow.

They didn't go far, just a short distance where they could sit and not get hit by the rushing water. Samara wasted no time in untangling the rag from her palm and dipping her hand in the cool stream. A breathy sigh left her lips, and Samara didn't notice Daryl's uncomfortable shift beside her.

She tuned out the hunter for a good few minutes as she cleaned her hand vigorously. She needed to get all the dirt out of her cut.

"Wait here." Daryl said as he handed her her rifle and stepped over some stones to get across the creek. "Don't wrap your hand yet."

The marshal watched as the hunter followed the creek down and disappeared behind some large stream vegetation. With him gone, Samara started cleaning the rest of her arms and face. She did not bother with the clothes as there was no reason to get all of herself wet, but she did wipe the areas where Dixon's body touched hers. Samara grumbled under her breath about personal hygiene and sweat and something that suspiciously sounded like 'push him in the creek'.

Daryl had come back not ten minutes later holding several green leaves in his hand which he promptly handed to her.

"Here. Put these on the wound."

Samara looked at her hand full of leaves then at Dixon. "What is this? Poison ivy?" She knew they weren't poison ivy, but that didn't stop her from asking.

Botany wasn't one of Samara's best points, but she had a small amount of knowledge. She knew the native Arizona plants by heart, but anything other than that was a mystery to her. Back then she hadn't counted on ever needing to know.

The man sighed. "Broadleaf plantain. Good for burns."

With raised brows, Samara wondered why he even bothered. She wasn't his favorite person, she was very aware of that. If their positions had been reversed, the marshal wouldn't have done the same for him. With uneasiness, Samara placed the leaves on her gash. It stung, but for once she trusted the man that he bore no ill intentions towards her. She really hoped she wasn't being made a fool, and that she was actually applying a plant that would give her a rash or cause gangrene.

Samara paused in her work when she saw Dixon's eyes slid to her ring finger, a thoughtful expression settling on his face.

"Surprised?" Her fingers flexed and Daryl's concentration was disrupted.

He shrugged, looking away from her. "Can't see you havin' a husband."

Samara let out a cheerless huff._ Neither did I._

It was true. Daryl had been wondering it since the moment she took her glove off at the ridge and revealed the thin golden band. His thoughts had skirted over who would actually be crazy enough to marry this shrew of a woman. Probably someone she could boss around and keep at her heel because for the life of him he couldn't see the woman submitting to anyone.

Her next words startled him out of his thoughts. "I'm guessing you were never married."

He scoffed. Between keeping Merle out of trouble and paying off his debts and bail bonds, and working on multiple jobs, he hadn't had the time for women except for a quick round in his truck. He had learned rather early to never bring any females home since Merle had a way of turning a situation like that into a spectacle for his own amusement.

With a kick of a pebble, Daryl shook off the memories. "We're headin' east for about four miles before goin' back to camp."

"And how are we going to get out of the creek?"

"The walls shorten down ways."

"Why didn't we just go that way in the first place?" A spark of annoyance flared. She just got dirty for a second time for nothing.

"How was I supposed to know the valley shortened down ways?" He spat at her. "You're hand needed cleanin' right now, or would you have preferred an infection?"

Samara broke eye contact with him.

Daryl grunted._ Thought so._

Readjusting his crossbow in his arms, the hunter marched down the creek's plateaus. "Let's go."

* * *

They had reached camp much later than they did yesterday. It was almost 6:00 PM when they stepped foot in the Greene's verdant field.

They had found no sign of the little girl as Samara predicted, only two stranglers that they had dispatched quickly.

Samara's hand was throbbing. Not overtly, the plants having run their course, but natural remedies could only do so much. She needed antibiotics and the cut stitched.

The camp was buzzing with activity. Glenn was atop the RV while Dale was underneath the hood of his motor-home, fixing the engine. Alistair was resting in the shade of the large vehicle and when he saw her, he limped towards her. Rick was with Shane, Andrea, T-Dog and Jimmy at his car discussing over the map—probably over the grids. The women or the other Greene's were nowhere to be seen.

Samara saw Glenn wave a hand at them, but neither responded. Samara was too tired to do anything other than walk, and Daryl probably couldn't bother to do it. As yesterday, Daryl broke off and headed towards Grimes and Samara headed towards the house to look for the farmer.

Samara was internally pleased that at least someone was happy to see her. Alistair reached her side and was happily wagging his tail. He was a dog, but these days she couldn't be picky. As per usual, Samara ignored him, but Alistair was not deterred. The only sign Samara gave that she was pleased with the dog was that her pace slowed so Alistair wouldn't be left behind.

Once she and the dog got in range of Glenn and Dale's immediate view, she heard the younger male gasp. That got Dale's attention as he looked from his work and his bushy brows shot up at the dirtied and disheveled look on the woman. His expression turned to full blown worry at the bandaged hand and the blood stained on the material.

"Jesus. What happened to you?" His eyes unconsciously drifted over to Daryl, thinking the worst.

While on better days Samara wouldn't mind everyone thinking that the hillbilly did this to her, she couldn't now. He had gone out of his way to retrieve the leaves.

"Fell down a slope, cut my hand on the way." She had left her tattered glove behind along with its twin. They were beyond repair now.

"You sure you're okay?"

She nodded and continued on her way, not even stopping when Rick asked her the same question. The redneck could explain, she needed Hershel right now.

* * *

Samara was seated on the sofa with Hershel next to her. The old farmer was cleaning her wound with antiseptics. Alistair was sitting next to her with his head on her bended knee. Samara's free hand was absentmindedly scratching the dog behind the ears.

When she had entered the house, Samara found the women all bundled up in the kitchen preparing what seemed to be a feast. There were two tables filled with plates, one for every occupant on the farm, minus Carl.

Carol had been the first to notice her injury and of course that alerted the others. Samara felt her fatigue accentuate when the women clustered around her asking questions. Patricia had been the one to find Hershel, which led to the both of them sitting on the sofa away from the kitchen.

Samara hissed when Hershel prodded in a more tender area of the cut. The old man apologized and proceeded to stitch her palm.

"You seem rather accident prone." He told her without looking up.

Samara watched dispassionately as the needle come in and out of her skin. "These days only…How long will it take to heal?"

"I'd say about a week or so."

_Great_, Samara flexed her fingers once Hershel finished his work a few minutes later.

"Don't strain that hand until the stitches come out." The man said as he placed the objects he had used back in the first-aid kit. "It was smart applyin' those Broadleaf leaves. Stopped an infection from growin'."

"It wasn't me." Samara grumbled uneasily. "Dixon was the one that found them."

"I see. How is your back? Rick told me that you were in an accident."

"Better. The pain's diming gradually." Not as fast as she hoped, but considering she was always on the move it was understandable.

Hershel nodded and picked up his kit prepared to leave. "Dinner's in about an hour. I suggest you get yourself cleaned up." He didn't seem thrilled with the idea, judging by his tone. Who would be? Having strangers occupy his land and then invade his home probably did not fall in what he believed to be acceptable.

"Hershel, thank you." She nodded to him respectfully. "And…I'm sorry about Otis. He didn't deserve to die like that."

In a way, Samara was being truthful. He had died a horrible death, his last thoughts centered on betrayal.

"Otis died to save that boy." Hershel said gravely, his mood dimming. "At least it meant somethin'."

_Just pray you never find out the truth._

"There's something I wish to speak to you about, but I think it would be best after dinner." She needed to further her intentions right now. No more waiting.

The old man watched her closely. He might be old, but Samara could see the wisdom of having lived over half a century in those eyes. "I'll be here."

Samara nodded and watched the farmer disappear into the bowels of his house.

* * *

Samara wiped the bathroom mirror of the steam and studied herself in it. For a second she was aghast as she did not recognize the woman in it.

It looked like her, but not. The person in it looked like she had aged five years in the last three months. Her cheeks had sunken in and the shadows underneath her eyes had accentuated to the point that she resembled a raccoon. The car accident scars had receded only leaving a bruise on her forehead courtesy of Glenn and some small scratches here and there from her fall. She had lost weight; she used to have curves before. Curves that her husband adored. Even her fingers had thinned to the point of them looking like spider limbs. Once or twice she had feared that her wedding ring would fall off if it weren't for the gloves keeping it there. Any fattiness that she might have had was long gone with only lean muscles left.

_Well,_ she mused tiredly as her hand ghosted over her firm abdomen, _at least I finally got my dream body_.

Samara observed her legs, armpits and sex. They were in dire need of a shave. A stray thought passed her mind that said that she indeed looked like a mountain goat.

A cheerless chortle escaped her lips. Damn it. She had involuntarily insulted herself.

Samara tugged at her dark brown hair. It had grown in these past months, now reaching past her shoulders. It needed to be shortened for practical reasons. Long hair in the Georgia summer was never a good idea.

Her olive greens slid towards the tattoos on her arms. Even they seemed to have lost their usual luster. Before, she had always been careful so they wouldn't lose their color, but these days she hadn't even bothered anymore. What would it matter in the long run?

Samara didn't even want to delve into how fucked up her psyche was. That was a Pandora's Box she never wanted to open lest she be swallowed whole.

All in all, she was a pale shadow of herself.

_John…What has become of me?_

With a sigh, Samara wretched her gaze from her double and clothed herself in the fresh batch of clothes she had brought with her. Dark green cargo pants, a faded black top, her cowboy boots and this time she tied her hair up into a ponytail. Tomorrow she would cut it.

The last article was the wedding band and necklace which she had cleaned first before attending to herself. The necklace wasn't that important, it was just an old heirloom that didn't mean anything anymore. There was no one she could pass it on too, and she doubted there would ever be. But like the white scar on her chin and the ring, it was an old comfort. They were the last remnants to her past and she didn't feel inclined to part with them yet.

* * *

Dinner was an uncomfortable affair.

Everyone was gathered in the Greene's dining room—the adults at the long table and the younger ones at the 'kiddy' table.

Samara was seated between T-Dog and Dale and if there was an instance in her life where she wished she was battling a horde of wendigos, this was it. The tension felt at the table was almost suffocating.

Alistair wasn't allowed at the table since he had stolen a piece of chicken when it was being set. Samara had to escort him outside by the scruff while berating and cursing the foul beast all along the way. Without an ounce of pity, she shut the door in his face, ignoring the way he scratched at it and whined. If he was going to be a thief then he'll be treated like one!

…Although, she did leave a bowl of water and one with lamb meat and rice. It wouldn't do if he died of starvation.

Samara observed the others from underneath her lashes. Everyone was eating quietly, not making eye contact for more than a few seconds. Rick was throwing Shane these veiled harsh looks and Samara dimly wondered what happened between the two to create such friction.

Glenn was the first to break the silence and it was unwelcome, although he didn't seem to notice. He asked if anyone knew how to play the guitar Dale found at the highway. Nobody answered. That is until Patricia spoke, which was similar to the other shoe dropping.

"Otis did."

If it was possible for the room to become even more unbearable it was now. That pretty much put an end to the conversation and the rest of the dinner was held in silence.

After dinner, the group had scattered outside. Lori and Carol had stayed behind to help the Greene sisters with the cleaning up. Samara had stayed behind also, but for different reasons altogether. She patiently waited for the moment to speak with Hershel alone.

It only took a few minutes before the old man appeared. He gave her one look before motioning for her to follow. Samara shot a glance at the kitchen in case any of the women saw them, but they were too preoccupied with their tasks than look behind.

Samara followed Hershel to a secluded room at the back of the house. It was a small study, most likely Hershel's. The books on the rafters caught her interest. Samara made a mental note to ask for one in the near future, something to stave off the boredom.

"So, what is it you wanted to talk about?" Hershel leaned against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

"First of all, I know how difficult this must be for you, having all these strangers on your land. But I am grateful to you and your family for letting me stay."

"Not 'us'?"

She smiled faintly. _Be polite_. "I'm not with them. I may have arrived here with Grimes and his people, but they are not my group."

"I see. Then why are you still here?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." Samara took a small step closer to Hershel just enough to have his complete attention and for her voice to be harder to hear in case anyone was outside. "I want you to know that if there's anything you need—work on the farm, supply gathering, protecting your people, hunting—I can provide it."

Hershel's brows rose minutely, but he said nothing.

"I'm a US Deputy Marshal, or I used to be one." She needed to sell all her skills that would be an asset to the farmer. "I know my way around firearms. If you want I can even teach your people how to shoot. I'm also good at tracking. I've been doing it since I was a child and hunting is no stranger to me." That last part was a bit of a lie, but she had time to get better at it. "Otis was the hunter in your family, wasn't he?"

"…He was."

"I know I can never take his place and this is probably too soon to say, but you're going to need provisions for the winter and that means a lot of meat. I'm aware of the preservation process. My grandparents had a small ranch and I've assisted my grandfather in preparing meat for winter. And…you might not want to believe me, but not everyone alive out there is decent. There are some people that survived this world that once they see a place like this, they would do anything to have it. _Anything_. I can protect your family from people like that."

The only sign that her words reached the old farmer was an extra frown line appearing on his forehead.

"I'm guessin' you're not tellin' me this out of the goodness of your heart." Hershel said suddenly and there was that gleam in his eyes that told her he already knew what she wanted. "What do you want in exchange?"

"A permanent place on your farm." Samara's back straightened and her eyes hardened. "I won't even ask for a place inside or a share of rations, I can take care of myself in that department. I just want to remain on the land. I will stay out of your way if you so want it."

Hershel uncrossed his arms and breathed in deeply. She was asking something similar to what Rick did. The only difference is, he didn't know anything about the woman—character wise. If she was a good person or a snake. She had offered blood to the boy and went back for the mother without getting anything in return. And then she left to find Otis and Shane. All of this and she wasn't even a part of their group.

Hershel wasn't a fool. He could see that she hadn't done all of that because she was being altruistic. Whatever her motives were, he could not see them as being wicked. The woman was looking after herself.

But the question is, could he trust her?

"I'll have to think about it."

Samara nodded. It was better than nothing.

"That's all I'm asking."

* * *

As the marshal exited the house, everyone else was turning in for the night while T-Dog was climbing atop the RV as his shift was starting. Alistair was already at the entrance of Samara's tent waiting for his master to open the flap so he could bolt inside.

The marshal noticed that the hunter was outside his tent on a small folding stool, smoking a cigarette. He was hunched over himself, his elbows on his knees, looking at the ground.

"How's your hand?" The low unforeseen question stopped her in her tracks. Samara's head turned to him and noticed that he hadn't moved one inch, but she could feel his eyes on her.

"Needed stitches, but it's good now." Her fingers twitched. The nicotine reached her nostrils and Samara couldn't help but breathe in deeply. She was really craving a cigarette right now, but she'll be damned if she asked him for one since she could anticipate his answer.

With a nod, Daryl went back to staring at the ground, lost in his thoughts.

A minute passed before his eyes settled back on the unmoving marshal. She was just standing there watching him.

"What?" Annoyance crawled out of his mouth.

The marshal shifted restlessly before taking a step closer to him. Daryl immediately tensed, apprehensive of the woman's peculiar nature.

"Dixon…" She started as she stopped a short distance from him. "Thank you for the leaves." Her voice was low and soft, a big difference from its usual sarcastic self, but Daryl could still detect the faint traces of reluctance. "You didn't have to do it, you know?"

It had been such a small thing, just a few leaves for a cut. But she couldn't understand why he bothered. They were neither comrades nor friends, just two strangers stuck together. It wasn't like it had been some serious situation where she lost a few fingers or a hand, just her palm being a bit banged up. She didn't stick her neck out for people for those kinds of situations, so why would he?

Daryl's eyes averted again to the ground as her probing gaze made his skin pucker. "Either that or I listen to you bitch about the pain."

Samara's lips quirked. At least it wasn't some emotional reason. "Ah, of course, my bitching."

Her head tilted to one side and a curios expression settled over her face. "Déjà vu, huh?"

Startled, Daryl's eyes popped back to her. He didn't understand what she was alluding to.

"You keep helping me like this people are going to start talking."

Daryl tensed further and his eyes moved behind her to see if anyone was watching them. Except for T-Dog, everyone else was already inside their sleeping abodes and the man atop didn't seem to be looking in their direction.

"That was humor." Samara said as she observed his nervous behavior. Was he afraid of what the others would think of him? Image was as useless as telephones these days.

The hunter's eyes narrowed into slits. Damn woman, making him worry like that. "You're shit at it."

"I know." She nodded wryly, before her expression settled into a more serious one. "I won't be joining you tomorrow. Got some things I want to do."

"Fine." Daryl shrugged as he took a drag from his cigarette. He'll finally get some peace and quiet, at least.

With a last deep inhale that made Daryl's hackles rise, Samara stepped back to her tent.

Daryl watched her as she entered her meager dwelling with the dog right behind her. Not even half a minute later, the dog was pushed out of the tent by a cherry-brown boot and the flap zipped up before he could even turn around. With a raised brow, Daryl watched as the dog pathetically pawed at the tent.

After minutes of silence from the other side, Alistair gave up. Daryl's eyes narrowed further when the dog turned to him with wide puppy dog eyes.

_He better not think it, _Daryl thought irritated as he finished his cigarette.

When the dog took a few steps towards him, Daryl sprinted into his tent. His tent wasn't a kennel; the mutt should sleep outside where he belongs.

* * *

**Foot Note:** For anyone interested, I posted a new TWD story (still DarylXOC) called 'Memory is Key'. It was an idea I just had to write down.


	8. Cracks

**Note:** I don't know if all you guys readers have read 'I Walk the Line' but if you want an image of Samara search for Julia Jones, the actress. She's pretty much the face of Samara, only with green eyes and tattoos.

It seems that 'Memory is Key' is picking up followers faster than flies on shit. I can't believe I'm actually envious of one of my side creations. But I guess the idea of amnesia is what got people hooked to it. It's different than reading something that walks the path of canon.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

Everyone in camp was up and about by the time morning came. All except for Lori. Samara noticed without much enthusiasm that the sheriff's wife had been oversleeping these past few days. Stress because of Carl or she was just taking her sweet time. If it was the latter, then she just lost some respect points in Samara's eyes.

Rick was organizing the search groups when Samara interrupted him.

"Samara you and Daryl can—"

"Not today." She shook her head as she readjusted the holsters. "I'm going to that town a distance from here. Scavenge anything that's useful."

"I'll go with you. I was already planning on taking a trip there." Glenn said.

"If there is anything needed from there, I'll pick it up."

She hoped that her message was obvious. She wanted to be alone. Samara had been with the group for almost a week now and she hadn't been able to have even a few minutes to herself. After almost three months of seclusion, being thrust into a social gathering like this has worn her out—physically and mentally. She needed to recharge her batteries.

"Sorry Samara, someone's gotta go with you. We've already established that everyone goes out in pairs." Rick said as he gave her a stern look. "Glenn goes with you or you don't go at all."

The marshal's eyes narrowed. She was seconds away from a rather verbal argument when Shane spoke up.

"I'll go as well." At the scowl that marred her face, Shane shrugged. "You won't even know I'm there."

Samara let out a ragged breath and she hoped to all that is holy that Shane saw the fury in her eyes. Their gazes stayed locked for several—uncomfortable for the others—beats. Like two predators seizing each other up, waiting for the other to make the first move so it could pounce.

As it were, Samara broke the lock and her eyes slid to Jimmy, who fidgeted under her fierce glare.

"How well do you know the layout of the town?"

"Pretty well. It's a one lane town."

"Will I need a map?"

"Not really. All the stores have signs on them. You can't get confused."

Without another word, Samara left to gather her things for the trip. She may not have raised her voice once, but her low words had the same effect as an erupting volcano.

Rick sighed. So much for starting to learn how to cooperate with others.

"She doesn't like you people much, does she?" Jimmy gave the woman a glance over his shoulder. The dog that was always following her around ran out of her way when she approached the tent like a raging bull. The force with which she swung the tent flap open made the teenager wince.

"Woman's got issues, go figure." Shane said as he also left for his tent, not bothered by Samara's silent aggressive display.

"She's just not used to so many people around. Don't worry about it." Rick explained to the boy and then he turned to the hunter who had been watching silently this whole time. "Daryl, since Samara won't be going with you—"

The hunter grunted as he buttoned up his long sleeve shirt. "I'll go alone. Anyone else would just slow me down."

"Are you sure?"

"Just try to send someone else with me." Daryl huffed as he walked towards the forest.

Rick rubbed his temple in aggravation.

"I'm guessin' he also has issues?" Jimmy asked with a sly smile.

"You have no idea."

* * *

The trio had decided to take Shane's Hyundai and, as such, Samara was throwing her backpack with provisions into the backseat. Shane had left to gather their guns while Glenn was running around camp, making list of what people needed.

For the umpteenth time Samara sighed as Alistair kept attempting to jump into the open backseat of the car.

"No." Samara pushed him away with her boot, but the stubborn dog persisted.

With a hiss of annoyance, Samara helped him in the backseat. If he got eaten by a walker or made his sprain worse, then it would be his own damn fault.

Alistair's ears perked up as he looked over Samara's shoulder. The marshal turned to see what captured the herder's interest. It was Dale.

"What is it?"

Dale stopped by open door, a wary look on his rugged face. "I just wanted to tell you to watch yourself out there. And watch over Glenn too."

Samara sighed. This was just getting ridiculous. "I can take care of myself and I'm sure the kid can also."

"I don't mean with walkers."

The marshal paused and she eyed Dale carefully. There was an apprehensive, somber look on him that put the marshal on edge.

It didn't take long for her to figure out who he was talking about. "Shane?"

"Just…" The older man shifted uneasily as he looked behind him towards the house where Shane disappeared. "Have him in your sights at all times."

Alistair whined lowly as his eyes shifted from her to Dale, not understanding what was happening.

"What is this about, Dale?"

Dale's brows furrowed as a dark look passed over his eyes. "You're observant, aren't you Samara? Didn't you find anything odd about the funeral?"

Samara's eyes narrowed fractionally. It seems Daryl wasn't the only one who found Shane's story defective.

_Shit._

"It was a funeral." She deadpanned.

Dale shook his head. "No, I mean with Shane."

"Explain." Samara put on a show of having all her attention when she was actually coming up with ways on how to divert Dale from creating further problems.

"You were there when Otis died. Do you believe his story?"

"Dale, I was on the other side of the school. I don't know what happened." It was true, she hadn't _seen_ it. "Second, shouldn't I believe him?"

The man shook his head convincingly. "I don't. I think he left Otis to die. He said it himself, there were dozens of walkers behind him and Otis. Shane had a sprained ankle, you were nowhere in sight, how else was he supposed to escape that?"

"Otis sacrificed himself."

Dale shook his head again and there was an intensity to him that made Samara aware that the old man knew something they didn't. "I know what kind of man Shane is. I know what he's capable of." Flashes of that time at the Atlanta camp when Shane pointed a gun at the back of Rick's head passed thru his mind. "That man is unhinged. He's been from the moment Rick stepped foot in camp. I don't know when he'll snap, but when he does…God help us if he has a gun in his hand."

Was Shane worse than she initially thought or did Dale just really dislike the man? But the credible look in his eyes made Samara pause uneasily. "Why are you so sure that Shane is dangerous?"

"Just…just trust me on this. I saw somethin' a while ago that made me wary of the man."

"What?" She pushed.

"It—it doesn't matter." Dale wasn't ready to share his knowledge of that incident. Not with Samara at least, he didn't know her that well.

She waved him off already tired of their conversation. "I think you're blowing this out of proportions, Dale."

"I don't. I thought about tellin' Rick, but I don't think he'll believe me."

Her lips downturned a fraction. _What a nuisance_. "Tell him what? That his best friend killed a man to bring back the medicine for his dying son?"

"Yes!" Dale returned his volume back to normal, lest he attract attention on themselves. "We can't have someone like that runnin' around the camp."

Samara then frowned, her lips pursing in displeasure. "You think just because he's _hypothetically_ killed someone that he's a danger to your group." It wasn't even a question.

"Yes!"

"…I see." In that respect, that meant that Dale would consider her a threat if he knew how casually she regarded human life these days. _These people…they really needed to wake the hell up_. "Well Dale, you're forgetting one important factor. There's no evidence. This is just speculation on your part and Rick will never listen to just what you _might_ think."

_He never does._

"I know." Dale breathed out tiredly.

"Look Dale, I'm not going to say anything about this. But if you do, I won't stop you." Now for the guilt-trip. She forced an ominous look on her face and hardened her tone so the words would drive home. "Just understand that creating another rift in this already dysfunctional group isn't going to help any of you. Try to see the consequences of revealing your suspicions to the others, to the Greene's. They would throw all of _us_ off his land, we'd all be on the road again, no hope in sight and I'm pretty sure _your_ suspicions might actually break the group this time."

Samara internally patted herself on the back when she saw Dale recoil as if bitten, but there was also that old part of herself that was disgusted that she had to do this to an old man who was only concerned for his newfound family.

"If Shane's mental health does deteriorate then Grimes won't be able to deny it and he'll be dealt with." She gave him at least that hope, although she couldn't see the sheriff dealing with it effectively. The only way to tame a mad dog is by putting it down. Samara just hoped it wouldn't come to that. It would probably shatter the sheriff's already cracked core.

Dale left Samara once he saw Shane exit the house. The marshal watched the old man's departing back with a grim look. This was a problem and dammit, Dale just dumped it into her lap!

And now said 'mad dog' was heading her way.

"What did Dale want?" He asked as he handed her her guns and holsters.

"Just saying bon voyage."

Shane grunted and she could see that he didn't believe her. When he was about to place his shotgun in the backseat he came face to face with the marshal's dog. "He's comin' too?"

"Apparently."

While he wasn't excited for the dog shedding and slobbering over his seats, he wasn't about to argue over the animal. The man looked over the area and found Glenn talking with Lori.

"Glenn come on, let's go!" Shane shouted out as he closed the back door and rounded on the car.

Glenn joined then not a minute later and took a seat next to Alistair while Samara was riding shotgun and Shane was behind the wheel.

With a sigh, Samara watched the farmhouse become smaller and smaller with each second until it disappeared completely.

* * *

Shane, Glenn and Samara had stopped the car outside the town limits on the insistence of the marshal. If walkers came, she didn't want to be encircled by them if they left the car in the town.

They were now slowly walking the main road, eyes searching for any signs of danger. Glenn was ahead of them with Alistair and he didn't seem threatened by his surroundings. He'd been here before and saw no sign of walking corpses.

"So, what do you want to pick up?"

"Everything useful." She answered Shane's question. "I want to reduce the excursions into town so we don't encounter any other survivors."

Shane nodded, seeing her train of thought. If anyone passing by caught them on a run it could spell disaster for the group. They didn't need strangers knowing they were here or worse, finding the farm. Shane wasn't an idiot to believe that their group was the only one that would want to stay on a farm that had little to no interaction with the virus. He'd be damned if he let anyone try to harm Lori or Carl.

The trio stopped in the middle of the road and observed the area. It was void of any life or unlife.

"We're gonna raid the food stores and the pharmacy." Shane started as he readjusted his cap. "Take everythin' we need, don't leave anythin' behind even if we don't need it right now."

"Okay. I'm going to the pharmacy." There was something there that he needed to get without the others knowledge. He had contemplated asking Samara what exactly Lori had requested him to find since he wasn't familiar with women's hygiene products. He had no idea what 'True Blue' was and Lori had been adamant in not detailing. But, he did promise to keep it to himself and so had refrained from speaking with the marshal.

"Then _we_'ll take the food stores." Shane said as he readjusted his shotgun as he gave Samara a meaningful stare.

Samara unholstered her muffled gun as she addressed Glenn. "Take Alistair with you. He'll be your watch."

Glenn nodded and motioned for the dog to follow. Alistair offered no resistance as he limped along the young man.

Samara and Shane headed back down the lane, while Glenn and Alistair continued on.

As much as Samara didn't want to stay with Shane, she had a feeling he would have insisted on them being paired up. The marshal was walking a few feet behind Shane. She didn't forget Dale's warning to have him in her sights at all time. While the old man's words were handy, she would have kept Shane in front of her either way. Just like Daryl and everyone else for that matter.

"Your husband…What happened to him?" Shane suddenly asked, making Samara steps hitch.

"Why are you here?" Samara countered. If this was his way of easing into a conversation about Otis, she'll strangle him.

"Can't I just help?" He said without turning around.

"Not when I'm involved." Her eyes narrowed. "What do you want Shane?"

The man huffed with a smirk. "You're pretty cocky to think I want anythin' from you."

A beat. Two.

"Fine then." Her tone was final and Shane heard it rather than saw it that she was tuning him out.

Shane turned around and waited for her to catch up. She didn't, she actually stopped. With a frown Shane took a step closer to her only to have the marshal take a step back.

They both remained frozen, Shane in incredulity and Samara in vigilance.

"You afraid of me?" His voice was low and soft.

She shook her head and Shane damned her for wearing those sunglasses that hid her eyes. "Just cautious."

His brows rose in astonishment. "You think I'm gonna shoot ya?"

"I'm just not sure why you came along."

The man took off his cap and ran a hand over his shaved head. "I just wanted to talk."

"And I thought I told you I didn't."

"Christ, I'm beginin' to wonder if threatenin' you with a gun is the only way to make you listen." Shane's eyes narrowed and he spat on the ground.

"Trust me, a lot of people have had the same idea." She said wryly.

"I bet." He grunted and picked up his pace again. He didn't need to turn around to know that Samara was following. "I don't want to talk about _that_. I actually wanted to talk to you about Sophia."

Samara rolled her eyes. "Couldn't you have done this at the camp?"

"In case you haven't noticed, there ain't much privacy there. And you're always runnin' around with Dixon, so I just took the first opportunity."

"Fine. Talk."

"Do you believe this girl is alive?" Shane heard a loud un-ladylike snort and his suspicions were confirmed. "I'm guessin' that I'm not the only one who thinks searchin' for her is a waste of time."

"You wouldn't."

"Rick doesn't understand." Shane remembered his discussion with his friend in the forest. "He still believes we're gonna find that girl and everythin' will be alright like it's a fuckin' fairy tail."

Samara shrugged. That sort of thinking was expected from Grimes. "He likes to see the positive."

"Well his positive is gonna get us all killed." His voice was getting more guttural and Samara could detect the hints of loathing. "We should be movin' on instead of sendin' out all our people in the forest. We should have stopped searchin' at the highway. That girl is either dead or undead. Sometimes it's better to not know."

His voice then dimmed into a whisper. "Sooner or later, one of us is gonna die out there and it's gonna be on his head." Shane then sighed warily. "I'm just tryin' to keep us all safe."

"How very noble of you."

She received an annoyed glare for her unwanted jab.

"You can rant all you want, stomp your feet…Grimes will never listen. Not until something like what you just said happens or you people find the girl. Alive, dead or undead."

Shane snorted. "So, I guess we'll be one member short soon."

They stopped talking once they reached the first store. Shane took the lead as Samara covered his back. Carefully, Shane turned the knob and was relieved to find it unlocked. Neither could see much of the inside since the windows were covered by thick, dark curtains, but they could see the form of the rows where food was supposed to be stocked.

Samara sidestepped towards the windows and pulled the curtains aside. The light of morning invaded the small shop, illuminating the interior. As predicted, barely anything was left on the shelves.

Shane banged on one of the rows with the end of his shotgun to gain the attention of any undead interlopers. Several minutes passed before Shane and Samara deemed the front relative safe. They spread out and searched the rows for crawlers, fatigued walkers and anything that was salvageable.

"Anything?" Shane asked over a row.

"Found some Pringles."

The man sighed as he walked up to the counter and searched for anything there. Again nothing.

"I'm gonna check the back. Maybe they have somethin' in the storage."

Samara waved him off and continued with her search in the front. She'd found some warm soda cans and an M&M bag. She was intolerant to chocolate, so she'll probably pawn the bag off to someone.

Shane appeared after about ten minutes carrying a case full of canned food and a bag of dry dog chow. "Found these stashed in the back."

The doggy bag he handed it over to Samara. "For Alistair."

"Thanks." Finally, she can stop feeding the mutt out of her rations. She inspected the back inscriptions—it was chicken with vegetables. It would do good for his digestion, at least she hoped so. She wasn't really aware of what a dog's diet should consist of.

They spent the next few minutes placing the provisions in their backpacks, before departing. Back on the lane, they moved to the opposite side to restart the process on a convenience store. There had been a walker inside but Shane had dealt with it before Samara could. This time, they had found more provisions and some repair tools which Samara thought Dale could use.

"Shane, you might want to be careful from now on." Samara said as they crammed the finds in their backpacks. The marshal had to retrieve some shopping bags for what couldn't be placed in the bags.

He frowned. "What're you talkin' about?"

"Dale knows your story was horseshit and I believe Dixon thinks the same."

"Shit." He zipped up his bag more forcefully than necessary. "Was it that bad?"

Samara didn't even give a courtesy pause. "You could've worked on it better."

"Well, I had other things on my mind at the time, 'scuze me for not bein' able to come up with the best cover up story." He pulled the backpack over his shoulders and grabbed hold of his shotgun that he had left on the counter.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much." Samara heaved as her own heavy pack was now on her back. "The Greene's believed it and the majority of the group did also. If the redneck knows, he won't talk. He would have hinted at it already. But Dale…" She let her statement hang.

Shane nodded, knowing what the woman was implying. "Dale should really stop buttin' into other people's business."

Samara watched as the man opened the door to the shop with such force that it rattled the window panes. Picking up the grocery bags, Samara followed the deputy.

"Don't do anything stupid, Shane." She called out to him warningly. If he started a fight back at camp, words that should remain buried might fly, and that could not happen.

Shane stopped in his march and turned around with an irritated frown. "I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't give that man ammunition to use against me."

His frown suddenly disappeared as a surprised look crossed over his face. Samara followed his line of sight which landed on what seemed a small bar/saloon.

With a smirk, Shane walked towards it. "Wonder if they got any drinks in there."

That's the last thing they needed right now, Samara thought with a twitch. But she followed nonetheless.

Before entering the saloon, she looked behind her to see if there was any sign of Glenn or the dog. She hadn't heard or seen any sign of them since they split up. She hoped they hadn't become walker bait. It would be a pity.

The saloon wasn't any more interesting than the town, just a dingy old place that had seen better days. Shane had managed to dig up a few bottles of alcohol from behind the counter and Samara had taken one of the bottles for herself to his surprise—it was a bottle of vodka. He didn't understand why she suddenly started chuckling.

"You smoke, right?" Shane suddenly asked breaking the silence that encompassed the bar for the past five minutes.

Samara whipped around and saw Shane at the bar with two packs of unopened cigarettes in his hand. Like a lion that just got a whiff of a tasty meal she circled around the table, her now uncovered eyes eyeing the packs with ferocious intensity. After getting a taste last night from Daryl's cigarette, her insides have been craving that cigarette to sooth all her troubles.

She stopped at the counter and extended her hand only to have Shane move them out of reach. There was no laughing jest in his action, his eyes were sober.

"I speak your language."

Samara blinked then slowly lowered her arm and placed it on the counter. Her eyes flattened in a perceptive light. "I see…What do you want for them?"

"You to back me up. I want Rick to stop lookin' for that girl. I know I can't convince him on my own, but maybe with some else—"

Samara shook her head. "Grimes won't listen to me either, you know he won't."

"Pressure from more than one person could make him concede."

"There are two of us and nine of them. It won't work." She reinforced her point.

Shane banged his open palm against the counter in frustration. How the hell did Rick manage to compromise with her? Was there a manual that Shane didn't know about—'99 Ways on How to Deal with Samara'? "Then whenever I need you too!"

"Fuck off." She scoffed. "I don't know what you will decide to raise a flag for. It could be something that goes against my very survival."

She turned away from the bar with the intention of leaving the abandoned place, cigarettes or no. She heard Shane curse before his heavy footsteps approached her and Samara felt her arm along with her whole body jerked back.

With startled eyes, Samara unholstered her gun.

Shane froze as the silenced muzzle was pressed against his forehead.

Time slowed to a stop.

Shane remained rooted in his spot as there was a woman seconds away from blowing his head off, and Samara because she was waiting for his next move that would either cost him his life or let him keep it.

"I thought I told you I don't respond well to threats."

Shane internally winced at the arctic tone, but he was careful not to let it show on his face. There was nothing in the woman's actions or voice to indicate that she was only posturing. She was dead serious.

Suddenly, a memory flashed before his eyes. He and Rick had been talking of the same woman during the week they had been driving around the Atlanta area. Shane had asked him out of curiosity for this female marshal and Rick had confessed that Samara had been one of the few people that actually _terrified_ him to the very core. Not because she had weighted his life so casually, but because she represented what people could become without human society.

To survive, she had opted to cross over that invisible threshold that had served for many centuries as a barrier between what was morally right and wrong.

Rick said that nowadays whenever he dealt with a situation that could tip the balance of his principles and lead him down a dark path, he thought of the marshal. She served as a warning of what would become of him if he crossed over that line.

And Shane could see it now. Until this moment, it had been just Rick's words. But now, Shane could see the black void that sucked out all the life from her eyes, where no mercy or sympathy existed.

"I didn't mean anythin' by it." Shane let go of her arm slowly as to not jostle her trigger hand. He needed to be very careful in the next few moments.

"Samara look, if any issues that you and I both agree on appear, I just want you to speak up. Don't keep it to yourself." Shane said as he took a small step back. "Do you really believe that endangerin' all of us is for the greater good?"

For a moment Shane believed that his words wouldn't reach her, that the impenetrable fortress would never loosen its defenses. But it did. The void receded, replaced with the first spark of an emotion—sternness.

"Never do that again, Shane." Her gun returned to the thigh holster.

He nodded slowly, still wary of her.

Samara left the bar without another word. She needed a few minutes to compose herself.

* * *

The squirrel sauntered on the low branch, bracing a nut in his little paws. A low crack had its ears perked up and its marble eyes searching the area with anxiousness. When the tiny woodland critter heard no other disturbance it went back to its meal.

The poor little bastard never got the chance to realize it was already dead.

_Twang._

Within a second, life fled the tiny animal as it fell off the branch onto the ground. The cause of its death had been a well embedded arrow into its head.

Daryl ripped the arrow away and added the critter to his string of squirrels. He had already caught two of them and was hoping to find more. Maybe if he was lucky, one for each in the camp.

He had found no trace of the girl and so had started hunting for squirrels. He needed something to keep his mind off the fact that he will be returning to the group for the third time without any results. It was getting harder to look Carol in the eye.

With a last knot, Daryl left his kills alone and reloaded his crossbow. For a moment, he forgot his earlier vow and looked behind him—

_Goddammit. _Daryl scowled at himself. He really needed to stop doing that.

The first time he did it was to observe the Indian's progress only to be reminded that she wasn't there with him. She was in town with Glenn and Shane. The second time had been done absent-mindedly; he was just overlooking a small valley when his brain had the subconscious idea to look for long hair and russet skin. He had given his head a good shake and blamed it on sunstroke. He then vowed never to do something so stupid.

It wasn't like he missed her. She was a bitch half the time and the other half she goaded him into arguments. But he did miss the presence of another human being there with him. After all these months around people, he had gotten used to there being someone with him at almost every interval of the day.

But then again, the solitary part of him was relieved of the reprieve. He was finally on his own since the virus ravaged the country. Just him in his natural surroundings.

He should take advantage of this opportunity to the fullest, Daryl thought. By tomorrow the woman would be back, prodding and snarking at him.

It still didn't stop his ocular nerves from getting the urge to look behind him.

* * *

Shane joined Samara outside ten minutes after she left. The tinted aviators were now back over her eyes and he couldn't see what she was thinking anymore. Neither talked. The only interaction they had was when Shane handed her the cigarette packs without a word.

They met up with Alistair and Glenn who appeared to be more on edge than ever. Neither Samara nor Shane gave it much thought since the young man was always nervous about one thing or another. The four of them searched the other shops for the next few hours. Whatever they found usable was loaded in the car, everything else was left where it was. They had come across only two walkers: one that had been locked in a basement, while the other in a room on an upper floor.

Canned food, cereal, bottles of water and juice, packets of junk food, some medicine, some clothes, bathroom necessities, tools and cigarettes. That was the sum of what had been looted from half of the stores. Shane had not brought the alcohol after Samara had remembered Maggie's stern objection to having alcohol on her father's land. He then pointed out that she kept the vodka bottle to which he then picked a five year old whisky for himself.

Five hours had passed since they arrived in town which meant that it was somewhere around 2:00 PM. Shane had called it a day and Glenn was all too eager to leave.

"You get everythin' from the pharmacy?" Shane asked Glenn as they were filling up the trunk of his car.

"Uh, not really. There are still some things I left." The majority of the medicine related to pregnancy. He didn't want to risk Shane or Samara snooping thru the bag.

"Never mind, we'll get them tomorrow." Samara said as she arranged the backpacks and cases. She then turned on Glenn and caught one of the straps of his rucksack that he seemed to be clutching onto for dear life. "Hand it over."

"No!" Glenn's sudden start made Shane's brows go high and Samara pause in her tugging. Glenn took a deep breath and gave them a smile…Or at least tried to. "I-I mean, I'll hold onto it. You don't have to bother."

With a confused look, Samara let go of the strap. "…Alright." She closed the hatch of the filled up trunk and sidestepped the young man on her way to her seat.

Shane gave Glenn a strange look before walking along the car and stepping into the driver's seat. Glenn let out a heavy breath and climbed into the passenger seat with Alistair, ready to head back to camp.

* * *

Once back at the farmhouse, Shane spoke with Rick about sending another party out tomorrow to gather what else was left. Glenn had wandered off towards the tents and as for Alistair, Samara had to physically pick him up as today's activity made his limp worsen. The marshal let Shane and Rick deal with the supplies as she already scheduled to do other things, but not before being relieved of her weapons by Rick.

The woman left her backpack in her tent with the personal provisions she took for herself and picked up a small towel and Alistair. With the dog in tow and towel around her neck, Samara picked up a bucket she found around the camp and headed straight for the outside pump to apply cold water on the mutt's leg.

The marshal could swear she heard the dog sigh when the cool water hit his inflated muscles.

"That's it. You're not moving one inch tomorrow."

She kept his leg in the full bucket for ten minutes as Hershel had instructed her too. She then proceeded to dump half of the water onto the dog. Alistair yelped and tried to run only to have Samara tug him back by his tail.

"No you don't."

He smelled, plain and simple. And she'd be damned if he slept in the area of her tent while he stank like a week old dirty sock. While the water wouldn't do much without shampoo, it was better than nothing. With the towel, Samara dipped it in the half empty bucket and wiped the dog's fur. Since Samara wasn't throwing cold water on him anymore, Alistair calmed down and enjoyed the cooling bath.

Fifteen minutes later, Samara dumped the rest of the water in the ground and returned to camp with a wet dog and the bucket.

* * *

The marshal stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She was turning her head form left to right, making mental notes on where she'll cut her hair. With a decisive nod, she brought the pair of scissors up to head silky tresses and proceeded to butcher them.

It took longer than she wanted, but Samara observed the result of her tampering and deemed it satisfactory. Now she wasn't a hairstylist, not by a long shot, but she was confident that her hair was now at an acceptable standard if not slightly tilted. Her hair wasn't changed that much, the ends being just a few inches above her shoulders.

Cleaning up the bathroom of her chopped tresses, she picked up the vodka bottle and M&M bag she had left on a shelf and left the room and headed downstairs. She had one last thing she needed to do before heading outside.

Samara found Rick inside his son's sick room, in the chair by the bed. They were talking in hushed voices and when Samara tapped on the threshold they both regarded her in surprise, not exactly expecting her to visit.

"Hey, Samara." Carl's brows then scrunched as he looked at her closely. "Did you cut your hair?"

"Kid." She nodded to the boy. "Yes I did. How're you feeling?"

"Better." He shifted and a flash of discomfort contorted his expression for a second.

"Hershel says it's gonna take another day before he can get out of bed." Rick explained as he adjusted his sheriff's hat atop Carl's head. His son gave a short chortle once Rick tipped the hat over his face in jest.

"Is there somethin' wrong?" Rick asked her when she just stood there, looking out of place.

With an uneasy shift of her feet, Samara stepped into the room and with a flick of her fingers, dropped the bag of M&M's by Carl's side.

"Found these in town. I'm not one for chocolate, so I figured since you're a kid you'd like them."

"Wow. Thanks, Samara." His fingers clutched the bag and brought it to his eyes to inspect it. With a smile directed at the marshal, he placed the bag on the nightstand. "I'm gonna leave it for when we find Sophia. She always said she liked chocolate with peanuts."

"And I'm sure she'll appreciate it." Rick said with a smile. His son's happiness brought him happiness.

"Right." Samara said awkwardly, before straightening up. Her lips then quirked into a half smile. "There's another thing."

A cool, translucent bottle landed in Rick's lap. Surprised, the man picked it up and recognized the label as a brand of vodka. With an arched brow, his gaze shifted up to Samara.

"What's this for?"

"I believe I owed you one."

Rick gave her a strange look. He didn't remember asking her for alcohol. His brain worked as he tried to remember when vodka was ever involved in their conversations. There was one time in—

_Ah. _

_Their bet._

Rick chuckled. After all this time she remembered something as minuscule as that. It hasn't even passed his mind since Atlanta. "So you did. I'm not really a drinker, though. So, I don't have anythin' to do with it."

"Make a bomb out of it." She offered.

He quietly laughed again. "How about I give it back to you and you use it for your explosives, and let's call the gesture as you holdin' up your end."

"Works for me." She took the offered bottle.

"You make bombs out of bottles?" At her nod, Carl's smile turned into a grin. "That's pretty cool. Could you show me sometime?"

Rick intervened before Samara could answer. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. You've only just started recoverin', we don't need you bein' put in the sick bed again."

Carl pouted and internally sighed as he was forbidden from yet another activity.

As her task was finished here, Samara turned towards the exit. Before she could leave the room, Rick spoke up. "Are you gonna head back to town tomorrow?"

Samara shook her head. "I'm going back in the forest. Send someone else."

At his nod, Samara left the room and Rick listened to her light steps before the door opened and closed with a squeak of rusty hinges. A small smile appeared on his lips and a light chuckle soon followed.

"It's nice to hear you laugh again." Carl said as he watched his father content for the first time in days. He had been either too stressed or worried over the group.

Rick's glimmering blue orbs settled on his son and a hand came up to flick his nose. "I guess it's the little things."

"Dad!"

* * *

Samara was reading the 'Count of Monte-Cristo' on top of the RV when she spotted Daryl coming out of the forest hours later. She had borrowed the book from Hershel since she had nothing better to do around the camp. She didn't know how to cook—unless you counted mac and cheese as dinner—and Samara downright refused to do everyone's dirty laundry, so she had opted to be the lookout. The book was not new to her, but it was a favorite and so she reveled in reacquainting herself with Dumas's words.

Bringing the pair of binoculars to her sunglasses and watched the hunter haul something behind him. Once he got closer, Samara whistled lowly as she realized what he was dragging.

"Dixon's back." She called to the others. "And it seems he caught a deer."

Glenn, Rick and Shane were the ones that helped Dixon carry the dead animal back to camp. As they passed the RV, Daryl's gaze slid up to her. Their eyes remained locked for a few heartbeats before the marshal did something unexpected. She nodded ever so slightly in greeting.

The unexpected gesture almost made Daryl pause in his step. _Almost._ Daryl returned the nod with some hesitation.

None of the others noticed their small gestures, but to both Samara and Daryl they spoke louder than any words. It was a sign that, _maybe,_ a possible bridge was built between them as the events of yesterday seemed to have calmed the waters between them. However long that would last was debatable.

With the efforts of the other three males, Daryl managed to tie the dead animal by the neck to a low thick branch on one of the trees a distance away from the camp. Carol had brought a large metal container courtesy of Patricia and placed it underneath the hanged deer, while Lori brought a bucket of water at Daryl's request.

The three men left once the deer was hung up and the hunter began his task of skinning the animal and carving up the meat. The group was all excited of the prospect of eating actual meat tonight.

Not even five minutes into the skinning process, Daryl caught sight of cherry-brown boots beside him. Very familiar boots.

"Where did you find it?" Daryl caught a whiff of nicotine before weak white-grayish smoke reached his eyes.

"North-east by the creek's bend." He responded without looking up. He didn't have time to stop and chat.

"You dragged this dead weight for six kilometers?" She circled around the deer and prodded its hide.

"It's here, ain't it?" Several times in his trek back to the camp, the idea of leaving the deer behind flashed thru his mind. The damn thing _was_ heavy and it was the middle of the day, but he persisted because then it would have been a waste of his time and skill.

"Need any help?"

Daryl's icy blue eyes finally regarded her. He hadn't noticed any changes about her once he set foot in camp, but now at a closer look her hair was shorter than he remembered. It didn't change her much, just showed her face more clearly. Before, her hair always got in the way and she was constantly fussing over it with a scowl.

There was a burning cigarette loosely held between her lips. He faintly wondered if she stole his last two cigarettes, but disregarded that notion since she probably thought that entering his tent would give her a disease.

"Do you even know what you're supposed to do?"

"Sort of." She said while exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Daryl heard the unsure tone and paused in his work. "If you're gonna fuck it up then—"

"I'm not going to fuck it up." She said firmly. "I just haven't skinned an animal in some time. I may be a bit rusty."

"Just how long?"

Samara was reluctant to answer which immediately told him that it had been a long time. "About seven years."

"Shit." With a last slash of his knife, Daryl ripped the skin clear off the deer's legs. "Never mind."

"Oh come on." Samara took another hit from her cigarette, her tone failing at being beguiling. "I need the practice and it'll make your job easier. Two pairs of hands are better than one." She paused and then waved her injured hand ironically. "Well, one and a half."

While that did tempt him, his eyes drifted to the others and whatever light mood he was in, plummeted suddenly. Daryl only now noticed that he was being watched. Andrea's binoculars kept drifting to his spot from atop the RV (she had replaced Samara in her watch once she got off the vehicle), Dale was giving them looks from underneath the hood of the RV, Carol and Lori watched them quite obviously from their place at the picnic table and even Shane was watching their interaction from underneath his cap.

_Shit._

Up until now, the others hadn't witnessed much of his and Samara's interactions. They only knew that the two were at odds since they held each other at gun point, but over the past few days that loathing settled into irritation. At least for Daryl. They poked each other with sharp sticks, but nothing violent like at the highway erupted between the two of them.

But _they_ didn't know that. The others probably feared that another showdown would happen just by them being near one another.

All this attention cast on him and the unsuspecting marshal made him very uncomfortable. Heat rose up his neck and warmed his face. He was not here for these people's entertainment!

So his response was one born out of his well nurtured defense mechanism.

"I don't need your damn help!" Daryl barked at the marshal. "You wanna practice, catch your own damn deer!"

Daryl practically felt the temperature around them drop a few degrees. He did not raise his eyes from his work; he did not need to see the cold ire in her eyes to know she was very displeased.

The woman threw her cigarette away as she took a peek behind her and noticed the same sight Daryl saw before lashing out.

"Heh."

Daryl was startled when instead of the verbal abuse that he had expected from her, he got a cold laugh. There was a razor-sharp smirk settled over her lips and he almost snapped again once he saw the disappointed look she was giving him.

The woman tilted her chin up and her green irises darkened with the most disdainful look he had ever seen. Placing her sunglasses back over her eyes she turned on her heel and left him alone with his catch.

Daryl stood there frozen still. He felt in the pit of his stomach something exponential shift between the two of them. They had ripped themselves a new one before, but this time seemed different. Whatever mediocre progress they had made had been snuffed out like a candle in a storm by his words. He just knew that the woman's mild behavior until now had all but evaporated and by the look she gave him, he knew she would recede to uncooperative mode and make his life a living hell.

He looked over his shoulder and watched the Indian climb back on top of the RV and settle cross-legged on the other end of the vehicle, away from Andrea. Opening her book, she continued reading, looking the picture of indifference.

With a harsher tug of deer skin, Daryl went back to his work while cursing the woman for leaving him with an unconformable tug in his stomach.

* * *

While on the outside Samara appeared calm and collected—her usual self—on the inside she was seething.

_Stupid fucking redneck._

She had gone out of her way to help him. Actually _help_ him. And he spits it right back into her face just because the rest of his people were gawking at them like a Saturday night TV show. She had just wanted to return the favor he had given her yesterday with the leaves, although half of her reason for wanting to assist him was to get herself reacquainted with skinning and carving up a deer, she still had genuinely wanted to help him.

_Gods, what a piece of work._

It didn't matter anymore. As far as she was concerned, they were back to square one. If he wanted to act like a fool guided by others perception of him, then he could remain one.

_Fucking trailer-trash hick_, she thought disdainfully. They were all the same in the end.

That was the last time she ever offered him any sort of aid.

* * *

**Foot Note:** Is Samara a Mary Sue? I don't really know how that concept goes; all I know is that they are loved by all and overpowered. It's not in this case, I'm very aware of that. I didn't conjure Samara up with the intent for her to be Mother Teresa. But MS's happen when a female has a lot of skills at hand. Samara is rather handy, but I hope not Mary Sue-ish handy.

What do you think of Samara? As a character, her personality and her views of the world and such? I would very much like to know how you see her. Is she believable?


	9. Truth Hurts and So Do Fists

**Note: **I think you're going to like this chapter. I know I did. Also, thank you all for the favorites and follows!

**NRIASB – **Don't worry, you haven't offended me. That's the kind of criticism I need and I thank you for it. I have always feared that I'd make Samara a tad too grizzly and indifferent to everyone around her, but a zombie apocalypse where you know that the only person you loved in the world is dead and you've been alone with barely any human contact for months can do that to a person. Is it really that unbelievable that a person, a _woman_, can change so much for their survival? Just look at Michonne. And as I said, Samara is a pragmatist, quite selfish and clearly a pessimist—she can't see the light at the end of the tunnel these days. Robotic? No, she still has feelings (otherwise she wouldn't get irritated or angry), but they are buried deep down and is reluctant to show them. She can't just jump on the Atlanta merry band and hold hands with them. Hopefully, she'll lighten up along the way.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

After yesterday's incident with the deer, Samara hadn't spoken a word to him. She barely even looked at him or acknowledged his presence. It was like he never existed to begin with and it was starting to grate on his nerves. She hadn't even eaten the deer meat, saying that she didn't have a taste for something touched by _him_.

He shouldn't care. Wasn't this what he had wanted from the beginning? For the woman to leave him alone. And now that she finally did, it didn't feel right. Like a clock's mechanism malfunctioning once one of its parts stopped working.

He was supposed to go searching for Sophia with her again and he was mentally dreading it. After speaking with Rick about the area he and the Indian would search, he went looking for her. He had been searching for a good ten minutes with no sight of her and he was almost at the end of his fuse. Daryl had seen her before speaking with Rick, walking around the camp with the dog in her grasp, probably looking for some poor sap to pawn the dog of too.

Daryl was heading towards the RV, hoping she was inside, when two voices stopped him in his tracks. The woman he had been looking for was talking to Carol just on the other side of the RV. He had a mind to go over there and yell at her for wasting so much time, but Carol's words stopped him.

"Samara, thank you for looking for Sophia. I know this isn't what you planned on doing, but thank you, nonetheless."

A few seconds passed before the Indian answered.

"You're right; this isn't what I wanted to do with my time. But I'm staying, so I guess I should make do." Daryl heard some rustling and he realized that she was loading her guns. The woman's next question came out hesitatingly. "Carol, do _you_ still think she's alive?"

"I—I don't know. I want to believe my Sophia is still alive, but it's been a week…" Carol's voice dimmed down at the end before fully stopping.

There were a few moments of silence in which Daryl should have revealed himself, anything to stop Carol from speaking again. He didn't want to hear that she was starting to lose hope; that his time and effort was all in vain. But he didn't move; he remained rooted in place like a frightened rabbit.

—Call it morbid curiosity.

"How did your husband die?" Carol asked suddenly; a meek, soft tone coloring her voice.

Daryl could imagine the marshal's back stiffening and lips pursing in displeasure. She was never one for deep conversations, especially not about herself or her past.

A part of him—a small part—was also interested in the woman's answer. If she answered.

"Bombed in New York. I wasn't there. "

That he did not expect. Out of the many alternatives he came up with, Daryl always thought that she must have seen him die which probably caused her to emotionally shut down and turn into a survivalist with a one track mind.

Daryl had to strain his ears to hear Carol's next words. "How…How did you find the strength to move on?"

"I…stopped thinking about it and concentrated on myself." For the first time, Daryl heard melancholy mixed up in her voice.

"Just like that?"

"It's better when you don't dwell on the past. It can get you killed."

A beat.

"Yet you still wear the ring."

This time there was a longer pause and Samara's voice went back to its usual cynicism. "Some habits die hard."

The women's conversation stopped suddenly when Daryl came from behind the side of the RV. Carol seemed startled but she didn't suspect anything amiss, and as for Samara…her eyes narrowed into slits. Green eyes watched from underneath dark lashes for any sign that he had listened into their tête-à-tête. Unlucky for her, Daryl was also very adept at masking his expressions and there was nothing for her to see.

"How much longer are you gonna take, Indian? We should have been halfway in the forest by now." He spat and stepped past her, noticing Alistair at Carol's feet. It seems the woman had found her fool. "Making me look all over the farm like a damn dog…"

Samara said nothing as she followed him into the woods, but he sure as hell felt her eyes scorching the back of his head.

* * *

They had been walking for the better part of three hours, not once uttering a word. The tension between them needed a chainsaw to cut thru. While it did make him uncomfortable, Daryl didn't have the patience or the time to deal with her sulking behavior. He was here to search for the girl not to have a heart to heart.

The woman had spent her time hunting whatever squirrels or birds she saw with her muffled handgun. Her first couple of tries had been so bad that it made Daryl cringe. Just when she was about to pull the trigger on the unsuspecting critter, she would step on a branch or on crunchy leaves and scare the animal away. It was like clockwork. After the fourth try she gave up, making her foul mood even fouler.

A low rumble in the distance made them pause. Both looked towards the darkening clouds that loomed over them ominously. The weather had shifted so suddenly from blue skies to grey that it caught them by surprise. They were not prepared for rain, they had no equipment for it.

"Storm's coming." And by the looks of it a heavy one. "We should go back."

Those were the first words she uttered to him in the course of more than twelve hours, but Daryl gave it no thought. He was also preoccupied with the upcoming storm.

"No. We keep walkin'." He shook his head before sneering at her. "What? You afraid of a bit of rain, Indian?"

No reaction. Not even a spark of irritation.

Daryl's brows furrowed. He spat on the ground, annoyed, and resumed his walk. The woman followed, although it seemed more reluctant than anything.

* * *

Really…They had it coming.

Daryl and Samara were right in the middle of a raging storm, running blindly thru a muddied, slippery forest. They should have headed back when Samara had said it, the storm being that heavy. It was one of those summer ones that were so thick you could barely see a meter in front of you and it didn't help that the drops were as cold as ice and both were wearing light clothing.

"Goddammit!" Daryl heard the marshal shout behind him. "Dixon, we need to find shelter!"

"I know!" He yelled back, aware of their situation. The last thing they need right now was to catch hypothermia in the middle of summer.

He had no idea where they were, that was the awful truth. In the storm, Daryl had lost all sense of direction. They could be anywhere.

Daryl stopped and looked around him. Trees were everywhere and he had no landmark to guide himself by.

Samara stopped next to him and she was breathing heavily. They had been running for the better part of an hour and the cold was affecting her injured hand most painfully.

"Which way?"

Daryl shook his head, a rare lost look in his eyes.

"Fuck!" Samara cursed and wiped her face of the water dripping on it, but it wasn't like it mattered. It got drenched right back within a few seconds.

With a blind pick, he motioned to his left. "That way!"

Fifteen minutes later they fortunately reached the creek edge. Now at least they had something to go by, Daryl thought in relief. They just had to follow it upwards a mile and from there they could reach the abandoned farmhouse where Sophia had taken shelter.

Running along the edge of the creek valley, Daryl's foot slipped for a second before he righted himself. Because of the rain, the earth was loosened and thus created muddied landslides. Below them, the valley walls were made of stone and there was barely anything to latch onto in case one of them fell. There were a few thin trees that had grown from underneath the wall and were hanging limply.

"The earth's loose! Watch your step!" He shouted behind him.

"What?!" She shouted back, not hearing him over the inflated, furious stream beneath them and the noisy rain.

"I said watch your—"

He never got the chance to finish that sentence.

With horror flashing over his face, Daryl felt the earth underneath him give away and felt himself fall. In his panic, his fingers let go of the crossbow and his body hit the ground and slid down the valley. Fingers dug into stone, desperately hoping to latch onto a groove but his hands were caked in mud which made them slippery. His descend was stopped short once he grabbed hold onto a tree protruding from the stone wall.

Looking down he was struck with alarm when he saw the ten meter drop with tumultuous water and hard rock awaiting him.

Samara reached the edge and saw the hunter holding on for dear life onto a thin tree barely able to support his weight.

"Fuck." Daryl spat and then looked up at her. "Help me up!"

"How?!" Even if she laid belly down and outstretched her arm, it wouldn't reach him. And she wasn't about to risk stepping one foot near the edge where the earth could give away.

"I don't know, just do it!" His voice raised a note once he heard the tree groan.

Samara stood frozen in her spot and Daryl saw her crouch low and watch him calmly, no longer seeming deterred by the rain. The hunter swore he saw her eyes gleam maliciously.

"You want me to help you, do you? But I thought you didn't need _my_ help." Her head cocked to the side and a sneer molded her lips. "We wouldn't want your image to be tarnished now would we?"

She couldn't possibly be doing this right now, Daryl thought with wide eyes. Here he was dangling ten feet to his possible death and she was spouting to him about their little quarrel like it actually mattered right now.

But instead of an angry retort at her cruelty, he spoke surprisingly composed. "If you'd been in my place, would you have wanted my help?"

While he hadn't wanted unnecessary attention on him, the woman wouldn't have wanted _anyone_ to think of her as weak or not capable of doing a task. Everyone cared about what the people they were familiar with thought of them, no exceptions. The woman could deny it all she wanted, but she was in the same boat as all of them. She was not above such matters.

The sneer slipped off her face and all that remained was a pensive look.

"You'd do the same, you hypocrite!"

Daryl watched her unmoving form and felt his fate sealed once she got up and disappeared from his vision.

She left him. She fucking left him here to die.

With a hardening of his eyes, he started looking for indents in the stone to use in climbing back up. If she wasn't going to help him, he was going to help himself. Just like always. He was a fool to think she would lift a finger for him.

"Take my hand!"

Daryl looked up in surprise to see the marshal's upper half leaning over the edge with her injured hand outstretched to him while the other was gripping the edge with white knuckles.

"Don't just hang there gawking! Reach up, you idiot!"

Not needing another stimulate, he reached out and gripped her hand firmly. He did it just in time as the tree broke in half and all of Daryl's weight was now supported by the marshal.

"Shit!" He could see her teeth grind in pain. "Climb fast! I don't know how long I can hold you!"

Daryl wasted no time and inch by inch started to climb her arm, using his feet against the stone to push himself up. Samara cursed along the way as Daryl wrapped his arm around her torso—the marshal felt like she was being ripped in half, both ends being tugged viciously. The hunter placed his left leg in an indent in the wall and with his free hand he grabbed one of her jean's belt loops. Taking in a deep breath, he used his leg to propel himself upwards to the valley border and with his free hand dug his fingers into the mud to grab the edge.

His breaths at this point were visible and he could barely feel his fingers, the cold ground not helping his situation. With a growl his other hand disentangled from the belt loop and grabbed Samara's thigh. The hunter could have sworn he heard the woman yell indignantly, something about his hand's location. It was rather close to other more private areas of her body, but right now he didn't care. He just wanted to be out of danger. With a heave, he used her thigh and the edge to pull himself up and once his upper body was on horizontal ground, Daryl moved the hand from her thigh to her calf and dragged himself one last time.

Daryl plopped on the earth exhausted. He was now fully on safe ground, cheek pressed against the mud and he breathed heavily, for once relieved that the rain was icy since it cooled his heated body. His heart was thumping faster than a race horse, the adrenaline still running strong in his system.

Daryl was brought out of his stupor when something collided with his head. Shifting his head to his left he came face to face with a pair of cowboy boots.

_Oh right…_

He forgot about her.

One of her legs was moving frantically trying to hit him while the other, he observed, was tied at the ankle with a belt, and the belt was tied to her torso holsters, and the holsters were tied to her rifle and his crossbow. Both weapons were wedged in a boulder formation, used as a break. She had created a makeshift hook and rope out of what she had and he could see that the belt around her ankle was halfway split and still tearing.

Bringing himself to his knees rapidly, he caught her by the ankles and with what little strength he still had in his body he pulled. Daryl watched as more of Samara appeared from over the edge before all of her was now on even ground with him. The hunter didn't stop there and dragged himself backwards with her along, taking them as far away from the edge as possible.

Exhausted, Daryl fell right back on the ground, parallel with the marshal. From the corner of his eye, he could see the woman breath just as heavily as he.

Here they were bruised and tired in the bitter storm, just having avoided a possible death.

With a grunt, Daryl pushed himself to his feet. They needed to keep moving. Daryl walked over to the boulders and disentangled his crossbow and her rifle from the holsters. Turning around he was about to untie her ankle, but the marshal was already on it, throwing away the ruined belt.

Daryl gave her back the holsters along with the rifle. Samara took them and tied the harness back to her body with shaky fingers before throwing the rifle over her shoulder.

The marshal took his offered hand and Daryl pulled her up to her feet.

"Come on. We need to keep movin'." His voice came out softer than he wanted, but the exhaustion combined with his near death experienced had mellowed him down somewhat.

She nodded and followed him away from the edge of the creek valley.

* * *

It took them about twenty minutes to reach the farmhouse, but once inside, they both fell to the floor breathing heavily and shaking from head to toe.

Daryl was very aware that they were suffering from mild hypothermia. They needed to get themselves out of their wet clothing and somewhere warm. Hauling himself to his feet, Daryl told Samara to check the ground floor for any walkers while he went searching for blankets or any kind of material they could use to wrap themselves around. On the second floor, Daryl ripped the sheets from the beds and found some winter blankets in the closet. There were some spare clothing he found in the master bedroom's dressers and wardrobe.

Descending the stairs, he found the woman in the living room kindling a small fire with her lighter. There were pieces of furniture along with several bits of furniture in the fireplace. He had though he heard something breaking while on his search. Once the flames grew, she added carton from what seemed like cereal and rice boxes.

"Found these in the pantry." She lit the edges of a carton with her lighter before throwing it in the fire.

Daryl dropped the clothes, blankets and sheets on the dilapidated couch parallel the hearth. "Take your half."

Samara nodded and plucked the rifle off from around her shoulders and untied the holsters from her torso, before picking up the pink pajama set along with a sheet and a blanket. She motioned to Daryl to turn around so she could undress.

"Don't even think of looking."

"Who would?" He grumbled under his breath, but he felt the tips of his ears burn.

Daryl picked up his share of clothing and the sheet and left the room since he felt uncomfortable undressing with another person around. He had his reasons for not wanting anyone to see his body.

It took several minutes for him to dry himself off (thankfully the rain cleaned them both somewhat of the mud covering their skin) with the sheet and dress in his new clothes. They were two sizes too small, his grey sweatpants barely reaching his ankles and his pale blue long sleeve shirt felt tight around his chest and arms, but he couldn't complain.

Arriving back in the living room, Daryl almost smirked. The woman was swimming in the pj's—whoever the owner had been, had been a hefty female.

With a scowl the woman threw the blanket over her head and shoulders and cocooned herself in it near the fireplace. Daryl settled his wet clothes beside hers near the fireplace and picked up the last blanket, covered himself tightly and sat on the floor a distance from her. The heath from the fire felt good to his chilled skin and Daryl closed his eyes in content.

They remained in silence while the storm raged outside, lightning illuminating the room every few minutes and thunder resonating off the windows and walls. It took about ten minutes for both of their shivering to subside and their breathing to return to normal instead of wheezing.

"This is all your fault."

Daryl turned to the woman with incredulous eyes. "My fault?"

"You're the one that wanted to keep searching for that girl." Throwing the blanket off her, she rose to her feet and paced behind him. Her eyes were narrowed to slits and she practically spat at him like a wildcat. "You knew a storm was coming and you didn't give a shit! We should have gone back to camp, but no! You didn't even want to hear it!"

This was the first time the woman had raised her voice. All this time, whenever she was angry she lowered her voice to a hiss or she just stewed in it.

"Let me tell you something, you stupid redneck. That girl is dead. _Dead_!"

Daryl stood there frozen. Her words hitting his heart like a hammer.

"We're chasing after a fucking ghost! You and Grimes are living in a fantasy! You're just giving that woman false hope and you can't even see how it's slowly killing her!"

"Shut up…" He rose to his feet, his voice low with barely constrained fury.

"No, you will listen!" She stomped her bare foot on the floor. "You think I don't see the way that woman hunches over herself? How she's getting lifeless by each day?" She closed up on him and Daryl could practically see hellfire in her olive greens. "And you want to prolong _that_?"

"Tch." She spat on the floor next to him in disgust. "And you think _I'm_ the cold-blooded one."

"I almost fell down the ridge! You almost fell ten meters into the creek! And still you persist!" She grabbed a hold of his arm to stop him from leaving the room. "It's been a _week_. There must be some part of you that knows she's dead. Please, for all our sakes, listen to it and put a stop to this charade!"

"Shut up! Goddamn, just shut up!" He pushed her arm off violently and Samara took several steps back in defense. "You're always talkin'! The only thing I hear from you is your cynical bullshit!"

His expression was one of pure, unadulterated fury with a spark of desperation hidden behind his blues. "We're gonna find that girl! I once got lost in the forest for ten days when I was a kid. If I survived, she can too."

"That girl hasn't grown up in the forest like you, you backwood hick!" Samara shoved him, ignoring the dangerous gleam in his eyes. "She's a twelve year old girl that's no braver than a mouse! She has no survival skills or even a weapon! How the fuck can you possibly think she's still alive?" Another shove. "She probably got bit the moment—"

Daryl grabbed her hands when they came up again and he backed her up into the wall behind her. He slammed the marshal against it so unsympathetically that her breath escaped her.

"Didn't I tell you to shut up." His voice was set in a low hiss, his eyes the only indicator that he was fuming. His blues seemed to have taken an electrifying color. "'You should cut your losses and move on'. Who the hell do you think you are sayin' shit like that to Carol?"

Her eyes narrowed once she realized that he had indeed heard their conversation. "Someone who doesn't want to die looking for a dead girl."

Daryl remained silent for several seconds before his next words cut her straight to the core.

"Is that how you dealt with your husband? You just wrote him off as dead without even bein' sure?"

Her eyes widened to the point that the white of her eyes showed. "…What?"

Daryl would never admit it out loud but he took a perverse sense of satisfaction to see her wordless and without a biting retort for once. She looked like a cornered animal and Daryl was nothing but a predator.

"Glenn and T-Dog were in Atlanta when it got bombed—they lived thru it and got out alive. I went back to the city to look for my brother not knowin' if he was alive or dead. Hell, Grimes crossed several states for his family and he had no idea where they were or if they were even alive. But you…" He shook his head driving the last nail into the coffin. "I guess even loved ones don't count much into what's important to _your_ survival, you self-centered bitch."

Daryl let go off her hands and left her slumped against the wall, wide eyed. He could practically see the horror, anguish and shame rolling out of them in waves.

Without another look, Daryl turned his back on her wanting nothing but to be away from her poisonous presence. Later, he made a mental note to never turn his back on her, not after she was emotionally ripped apart.

When Daryl felt a hand on his upper arm yanking him back, he didn't expect such an explosive response.

_Crunch._

Daryl's hands flew to his face and he swore that the Native bitch broke his nose. _Fuck!_

"You leave my husband out of this!" She screeched piercingly as rage and misery cracked her voice. "You have no right to speak of him! You don't know me or my reasons!"

Daryl tried to catch one of her fists and he succeeded only to get the privilege of a kick in the shin. With a pained grunt, he immediately let go of her and backed away.

"You judge me, you fucking bastard?!" She picked up one of the pieces of the chair she'd broken to feed the fire and threw it at him. They were now in the hall of the house, with Samara backing him into the kitchen that was opposite the living room. "If your brother is as alive as you think he is, why didn't you go after him? Why didn't you pack your shit and search for him instead of remaining with the group?!"

"Dammit, stop!" He yelled as the last chair leg flew at him, hitting the cupboard behind him. Daryl never thought in his life that a person could look menacing while dressed in pink. If his brother had been in his place, he would have punched the marshal the moment she swung at him, but Daryl wasn't and he wasn't about to delve into that sort of degenerate behavior.

"You call me a hypocrite?! You're no better!"

Reaching his quota of shit he could stand in one day, Daryl snapped and rushed the woman. Not expecting the sudden move, Samara didn't have the chance to get out of his way when he grabbed her around the waist and body-slammed her into the kitchen table—his move similar to a pro-football player slamming his rival out of the ball-player's way. He had just wanted to immobilize her, he didn't expect for the force to break the legs of the table and cause them both to crash to the floor. The months old dust lifted from the movement and covered them in thick grime.

Both Daryl and Samara were left coughing and Samara in pain as she cushioned Daryl's fall and sustained yet another injury to her almost healthy back. A stray thought told her that this most likely set her recovery back for another week.

That put an end to their tussle. Or at least that's what Daryl would have liked.

Her forehead collided with his cheek. At the last second he moved his face to the side knowing that she was aiming for his bloodied nose. The next few minutes were spent wrestling and rolling around in the kitchen as Daryl tried to pin the Native's arms and legs down while Samara kept punching, scratching and kicking at any part of his body she could reach.

He managed to secure her wrists above her head and he had to nudge her knees apart and settle his body between them to secure the safety of his groin that she had been repeatedly aiming at.

"Stop already!" Daryl breathed out in exasperation as Samara kept writhing in attempt to escape. "Dammit, you crazy squaw, stop!"

"Fuc—!"

To Samara's indignity, a hand covered her mouth and chocked whatever curses would have come out.

Lightning illuminated the house and Samara detected with wide eyes two human shapes in the hallway behind Daryl.

_You've got to be fucking kidding me!_

She started struggling harder, no longer angry but terrified. There were two walkers not two meters from them and approaching. The hunter couldn't hear them over the storm raging outside and their loud breaths so he took her struggling as just her being stubborn.

"I'm not lettin' you go until you calm the hell down."

They were getting closer, so Samara did the only thing that would ensure he would let go of her, something that will haunt her for many days to come.

With an arch of her back, she pressed her breasts against his chest, making him feel the hardness of her nipples and then, to his utter horror, Daryl felt her lower half rise and her pelvis connect with his groin and _grind_. Daryl let go of her arms in shock and lifted his body from hers as far as possible.

He didn't expect to be thrown to the side and then for her to roll away to the other. It was then that he became aware of the reason for her sudden change in behavior—a walker fell on the floor right where they had been. His brain and body going into hyperdrive, he scrambled to his feet and backed away from the walker still standing. Samara was also on her feet, with the table leg she had thrown at him in hand.

The two walkers attention was on the closest person to them which was Samara. She had to climb on the kitchen counter to avoid the downed undead's fingers clawing at her feet. Swinging the wooden leg, she hit the other walker in the head, but it barely fazed him.

Daryl picked up one of the pans from the sink and jumped over the legs of the downed walker. He was now behind both of the walking corpses and swung the pan at the one standing. The force of the blow crashed the walker into the cupboards and he brought the pan right over its head, cracking the skull open and splattering blood over the kitchen floor.

Samara, on top of the counter, speared the chair leg right into the crawling walker's eye. The monster's head slumped to the floor, viscous blood pooling underneath it.

Daryl and Samara were left breathing heavily. The storm, the fight, the walkers coming out of nowhere had left them both emotionally and physically drained.

Pale blue crashed against olive green and both came to an understanding. For now, their argument was put off. They needed to search for any other intruders in the house.

Rushing into the living room they picked up their crossbow and guns and began searching for the place where the two walkers came inside the house. With a curse, Daryl saw the back door of the house banging against the threshold from the force of the wind outside. He stepped on the threshold and overlooked the area in front of him. Because of the wind and the thick rain he couldn't tell if there were other walkers in the area, so he swiftly stepped back inside and closed the door properly.

Turning on the woman, he observed the pained look on her face. "Didn't I tell you to check the house?"

"I did." She shifted uneasily on her feet. "But…I may have forgotten about that door."

"You…forgot." His brows rose in incredulity and his grip on the crossbow tightened until his fingers paled.

Samara spat a low curse and ran a hand thru her damp hair. "Look, I was cold and wet. I just wanted to get somewhere warm! I wasn't thinking straight…"

"Damn right you weren't!" His eyes narrowed to slits. "I could've been bit!"

Her eyes mirrored his. "Well, you weren't. You should thank my redskin ass for that."

He scoffed and pushed past her. "You were savin' yourself. Don't try to sell me your horseshit."

His feet stopped short when he heard a click before cold metal pressed against the back of his head.

"You should have never taken your eyes off of me."

What was that he said about _not_ turning his back on her? Daryl closed his eyes in disbelief and slowly turned back towards the woman, observing her with frosty eyes. It seems whatever truce they had on had become null and void.

"Is that what you told Otis before killin' him?"

Her hand faltered. That was all the time he needed to wretch the gun out of her hand and toss her against the wall. He threw the gun behind him and leveled his crossbow to her head while Samara backed away and took out one of her other handguns.

Déjà vu all over again. It seemed that no matter what they did, they both ended up in the same position—pointing weapons at each other.

"What are you talking about?" Samara said lowly.

One of Daryl's brows rose in skepticism. "You think I'm stupid enough to believe that joke of a story?"

A somber look settled over her face. "And you think I killed him?"

"You. Shane. Both of you. Doesn't matter." His finger moved on the trigger, making the marshal mimic his movement in apprehension. "You both are fuckin' crazy either way."

"I didn't shoot him." Samara's brow furrowed in sincerity. While she may not have a problem shooting people, she had never hurt anyone who hadn't had it coming. Except of course for that boy before Wiltshire—that had been an unfortunate accident.

_Shane then_, Daryl confirmed his suspicions. He hadn't thought that the Native did it. Shane had been far too jumpy that day, his guilt almost palpable and the woman kept watching him far too closely. Almost defensively.

"And what does it matter, either way?" She mumbled as her gun lowered. Whatever fight she had left had suddenly drained completely from her. She was too tired to argue anymore.

Daryl's crossbow didn't lower. He didn't trust her not to change her mind and raise that gun when his defenses were down.

"Or do you want to announce to the others about Shane's little indiscretion?"

Daryl watched her steadily before he lowered his weapon. No, he had no intention. He knew what would happen if he did, and they still had to look for the girl.

Samara sidestepped him, picked up her discarded gun and headed for the kitchen. A minute later, she came back out of the kitchen dragging a walker along. His eyes followed her all the way to the back door and out. She had the right idea, they couldn't leave the corpses in there; they would just stink up the place. With a grunt, Daryl shouldered his crossbow and dragged the other body out. Outside he was greeted with biting cold and freezing rain drops. Rapidly pushing the walker down the porch steps, he ran inside.

Rubbing his arms he checked the front door before ascending the stairs and headed for the bathroom so he could clean his bloodied nose. In all this commotion he had forgotten that the marshal probably broke it. His fingers prodded his nose and hissed once the pain throbbed.

_Christ, the woman had a mean hook._

In the bathroom mirror he studied his nose—it wasn't broken for one, just badly banged up. There was a cut in the middle of his nose and blood was still running down his nostrils, but now instead of cascading as it did before it just trickled. Daryl managed to find a few paper towels to wipe his face clean.

With a deep inhale, he plopped on the closed toilet. He could feel heat traveling up his throat and up his cheeks and he was pretty sure that if he looked into the mirror, he would see a tomato instead of his face. Running a hand over his warm cheeks, he tried to discontinue his thoughts from returning to that moment when the Indian had pressed up against him. He knew she had done it to get him off her, but it still didn't stop his body from reacting _again_. He just about put behind that incident at the creek and now his deprived mind jumped right back into it. The scenarios his mind conjured up about him and _her_ almost made him want to retch.

He didn't even like the woman…

Abruptly, his thoughts sobered and turned towards a darker path. What she had said about his brother…Daryl ran a hand thru his hair in frustration. He _hadn't_ abandoned Merle, he had looked for him. But he couldn't do it forever; he had no idea where to even begin. Merle had left him with no sign as to where he was going. He hadn't even waited.

What else was he supposed to do? He couldn't sit around Atlanta forever waiting for his brother to show up. He had to look after himself. Merle would be fine, Daryl knew at least that much. If there was anyone who could survive a grievous wound as that it was him.

—But there was that slitter of doubt that tugged at his heart and poisoned him with guilt.

Daryl remained in the bathroom until the bleeding stopped and his bruised ego healed before venturing out again.

Going back into the living area, he spotted Samara on her back on the sofa, wrapped in her blanket. Discomfort morphed her expression and Daryl remembered—with a speck of remorse—that he had slammed her back against the table. His guilt soon disappeared since she had inflicted more pain on him than he did her.

Their antagonism hadn't faded, not by a long shot. It was still there between them like a putrid skunk. The only difference was that their bodies were too exhausted to fight.

Daryl sat in front of the fireplace as far away from the woman as possible. They were in for a few tense hours.

* * *

The rain subsided two hours later and Daryl and Samara changed back into their now dry clothes and left the house for good. Not once had they talked. Their communication was cut short to hand signs and body language, both fearing that if they spoke again another fight would ensue.

Another two hours had been wasted to reach the farm and by then they were cold and miserable again. Even the blue sky and bright sun didn't lighten their disposition; it actually seemed to darken it.

Most of the people were out in the camp, at their posts or doing their respective tasks. Dale was the lookout atop the RV as per usual and once he spotted the two trackers exit the forest, he called out to the others.

Rick was the first that reached them.

"Finally, where were you two? We almost sent out a search par—" Rick's words died in his mouth. Both Samara and Daryl looked like they just went thru war. Splotches of mud all over, boots caked in earth and plants, pale skin. It shouldn't surprise him, they had been in the forest in the middle of a storm, but—

Daryl had crusted blood on his nose and smudged on his nostrils. Samara was walking far too stiffly and she winced every time she took a step.

"Christ, what happened?"

"We fell down some stairs." Samara said without a hint of amusement. By now Shane had joined Rick and was watching the tousled duo with raised brows.

"And Dixon hit every stair on the way down?" Shane's unconvinced eyes slid to Daryl. It looked more like _someone_ socked the hillbilly good.

Samara closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. "Just leave it."

She broke off from them and headed towards the house, Rick right on her trail. Daryl didn't hear what they were speaking, but judging from the way Samara tried to outrun Grimes' pace she wasn't thrilled.

Andrea, T-Dog and Carol finally reached them and Carol was the first—and only—to rush towards Daryl at the sight of his cut up nose.

"What happened?" Andrea asked the hunter as she eyed his disheveled state.

"Storm did. We took shelter in a house. Walkers were inside." He vaguely explained while trying to stave off Carol's worried fussing.

"And one of them punched you?" T-Dog looked at him skeptically.

"More like a certain marshal did." Shane smirked as an amused snort escaped his lips. He had been on the end of the woman's wrath, but she had never actually inflicted any physical pain on him. While the memory of her holding him at gunpoint hadn't subsided, he could not deny that she was something else entirely.

Daryl scowled at him before pushing away Carol's hands that tried to wipe the crusted blood of his nose. Now, as the memory of what happened inside the house was brought back to the forefront of his mind, he wasn't in the mood for company. He marched away from the others, cursing the Indian inside his head to hell and back.

* * *

"Samara, what the hell happened between you and Daryl?" Rick kept repeating the question as they ascended the stairs towards the Greene's bathroom.

"Nothing." She growled between clenched teeth as her eyes rolled. The sheriff needed to change his tune already.

"It's not nothin'." He frowned. "I told you if you wanted to live among us there were some rules you have to follow, no exceptions. One of them was: Don't start up a fight."

She whipped around so fast, Rick thought she would fall off the stairs. "It isn't my fault! Go badger the redneck."

The sheriff gave her a doubtful stare. "I have a hard time believin' that Daryl would instigate a fight with you."

With a huff, Samara turned around. "Gods, I shoot a few people and I'm the bad guy in everything." She grumbled under her breath as she stomped towards the bathroom.

The sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose when the door was loudly slammed shut.

"Rick?"

The man in question looked behind and saw his wife at the doorstep of his son's room watching him with a troubled look.

"It's fine. Go back inside." He said quietly as his eyes averted from hers. He didn't see the disappointed look that pained her entire face.

An hour had passed and he still couldn't look her in the eye.

Rick's eyes hardened as he observed the closed bathroom door and marched right up to it. He turned the knob, not even caring what the woman was doing inside, and barged in.

Samara was hunched over the sink with white knuckles gripping the edge. Her rifle was on the closed lit of the toilet along with her holsters and guns. Her eyes popped open to watch the sheriff swiftly close the door behind him and place the lock on it.

"You know, I could've been taking a shit." She hadn't moved from her position, only her narrowed eyes following.

The man ignored her sarcasm and stopped beside her and made sure she had no way of slipping away to the door. He needed her full attention right now.

"Samara…I already have enough problems as it is." One of them being his wife pregnant and the large possibility that the baby wasn't his but Shane's. "I don't need you joinin' the fray."

He licked his dry lips and placed his hands on his hips. "Now, you _will_ tell me what happened."

Samara watched him dispassionately before letting go of the sink and sitting on the rim of the tub with a grunt. Rick noted that when she sat down, pain flashed over her eyes and her shoulders tensed with sudden discomfort. Her eyes were averted from him as Samara started recounting the whole story—Dixon's refusal to go back, his slip down the valley, the house, the fight and finally the walkers. She may have let out some details, but she didn't see the harm in it after what happened.

Rick listened to her story with surprising cool even though underneath his blood boiled.

"What the hell is your problem with Daryl?" The man asked her once her story ended. "Ever since Wiltshire, you've done nothin' but antagonize him."

Of course, this was _her_ fault, Samara thought bitterly.

"Look, I have been dealing with his kind ever since I was assigned to West Virginia. They are all the same, make no mistake. Four years of them trying to kill me has made me quite apprehensive of these incest spawn fuckers. Shit, I almost got shot by some asshole a year ago just for stepping on his lawn!"

_What a welcome that had been…_

How many times had she dealt with the Dixie mafia, pot growers, drug dealers, outlaw M.C.'s? Never mind the ones that weren't even associated with them. They all were violent, dumb hicks that shot first and never questioned later. She had grown sick of it within the first year.

Samara suddenly separated from the tub and advanced on the sheriff, ferocity darkening her irises. Rick didn't move from his spot. He knew better than to back down from her.

Samara stopped not a scant few from inches from him, attempting to box him in but failing to her added irritation.

"You handcuffed his brother to a rooftop because he tried to kill you! I got stabbed in the shoulder by some bucktooth redneck not a month ago! I don't trust him and neither should you, no matter how _civil_ he appears to be."

Now Rick finally understood the last piece of the puzzle. At first he had believed that she was just wary of Daryl because of the stabbing incident before he met her, but her hatred ran much deeper. And the worst part was that it was misguided, at least in this instance. She was just letting out all that bottled up loathing on Daryl and he didn't deserve it.

"Samara, Daryl may not be the most tolerable of men but he would never jeopardize either of us. Not intentionally."

"You're taking his side then?" She sounded offended to Rick's ears.

He scrounged up his face in bewilderment. "There are no sides, Samara. Just the truth. And what I heard just now was that both of you let your anger get the better of you. You goaded him and he goaded you. And _you_ were the one to throw the first punch."

"He had no right to say that about John." Her face darkened with the sour memory. "I had my reasons…"

"I know." Rick nodded with the knowledge of their conversation on that night. "And he was in the wrong that time, but Daryl would only say that if he was cornered. I _know_ you're keepin' some things to yourself, tryin' to paint him as the bad guy. But I know Daryl just as much as I know you."

Silence encompassed the interior of the bathroom and both watched each other with narrowed eyes—Samara in barely restrained resentment and Rick with strictness.

The sheriff closed his eyes and ran a tired hand over them. His nerves had been at the end of their wiggly bodies an hour ago and this new situation was pushing him to snapping again like he did with Lori. He took two deep breaths and his blue eyes regarded the marshal gravely.

—She needed a good dose of reality and if he had to ram it down her throat, he would.

"If Daryl is as bad as you think he is, then he would have never gone back after you at Wiltshire. That's the truth." His harsh tone cut thru the bitterness and made the woman's left eye twitch. "He could have ignored what I said, blame it on not hearin', but he didn't. He wouldn't have offered the Doxycycline after you lost consciousness." Rick barely noticed the way her mouth gaped open suddenly. "He wouldn't be out there tryin' to look for a lost girl that he has no reason to. He ain't some monster that's about to attack you if you show your back to him."

"Just…try to see him as he is instead of mixing him up with all the faces you hate. I'm not askin' you to be friends, just try to understand and stop judgin' him for somethin' he hasn't done. This ain't West Virginia and Daryl is not those people."

He was out of breath by the end of his little speech, his feelings pouring out of him like a tidal wave.

"And for God's sake, don't start up another fight."

Samara outside composure hadn't changed but Rick could see the tempest rampaging inside her eyes. Her biting her lower lip announced him that she was at a loss. That his words actually reached her stubborn self.

"Why do you have so much faith in him?" Her voice was croaked and seemed far too small for her.

"Everyone deserves the benefit of a doubt. And if there's anythin' good that came out of this virus is the fact that it gave _all_ of us a second chance."

Samara's lips pursed. From the way the sheriff was looking at her, he probably believed that she had wasted her second chance on selfishness and apathy. Bitterness tastes very sour, the marshal thought.

_Well, fuck him._

"You think I'm some evil bitch, don't you?" A slow leer spread over her lips, already envisioning his affirmation with dark twisted pleasure. He would be a fool to think otherwise. Even she was aware that she was walking down a dark path.

"No, Samara." He shook his head wearily, making the grin slide right off her face. She was not evil; she was just resigned to this harsh world where no hope or warmth was left. "I just think you made up your mind about everything and everyone else before ever meetin' them, and you never once give them a chance to prove you wrong. You think Daryl is just some dumb redneck…You think I'm a hopeless fool that will get all of us killed."

Samara averted her eyes again. She didn't want him to see the truth of his words reflected in her eyes or the remorse that they sparked in his case.

Lori had asked him just a scant few days ago why he let Samara remain with them. His wife had no love for the woman, not after she bargained weapons in order to find Shane and bring Carl's medical supplies back. While his answer had been for the marshal's skills, his real reason was much deeper than that.

—Rick pitied Samara as much as he was wary of her.

And as such, he _wanted_ to _help_ her. Samara was lost in this world, just going thru the motions, getting hollow by each day. He wanted to show her that there was still good in this world. He couldn't tell Lori that he wanted to see that woman in the pictures: the one that smiled and kissed her husband lovingly and the one that affectionately had an arm over her father's shoulders. His wife wouldn't understand and would probably take it the wrong way.

He _needed_ for Samara to regain back her trust and compassion in people, because if she couldn't then there was no hope for the rest of them. It's easy to lose your way and stop caring when you have lost everything around you. It's easier to give in and not get back on your feet and keep hoping even when the odds were against you. Because God knows, he had been in the same position three weeks ago (it felt more like a lifetime)and he found the strength to continue on what the marshal probably thought as a futile search for his most likely deceased family.

It hadn't been pointless in the end. And _that_ was why he wanted to help her.

He couldn't do it for her, though. Samara was the one that had to reach out first. But he could nudge her in the right direction.

"You understand now?" He leaned over so he could catch her eye. "I just want you to put away your distorted views on the world and _see_."

* * *

_See, sheriff?_

Well, what she _saw_ made her want to break something.

Samara was sitting on the porch steps overlooking the camp and its inhabitants. After her 'talk' with Rick, she had stayed in the bathroom for another half an hour to give herself enough time to regain her composure and examine her back. She almost groaned out loud when she saw the large purplish-blue bruise right between her shoulder blades and spreading to her lower back.

She always did bruise easily, Samara mused dismally.

Well, it wasn't like she could do anything about it. It would heal on its own over time and as for the pain, she would just have to go back on painkillers. The marshal noticed with worry that she had become accustomed to the usual dose and that her body was starting to crave more. Soon, she'll have to go on mandatory no pills, even if her back felt like it was being stuffed into a meat grinder.

One by one she looked each human over and recalled her first impressions of them. Carol—useless, Lori—overprotective of her son and useless, Andrea—possibly depressed and useless, the children—useless and danger attractors, T-Dog—not afraid to put his neck out for his people, Glenn—jumpy like a rabbit, Shane—far too uptight, Daryl—redneck (that was enough for her), Dale—overprotective of Andrea, and lastly the sheriff…who was the sheriff.

These people were still dysfunctional once put together. They weren't a 'one group one mind' type, which was what kept them at odds with each other. The sheriff could preach about unity all he wanted, but his group was conga dancing towards the edge of the precipice. But after a week with them, these opinions of them had expanded into much more detailed repertoires as she observed them more closely.

Carol, despite her weaknesses, was a caring mother and from what Dale told her on their watch duty atop the RV, she had had a piece of shit husband that made her and her daughter's life a living hell. On the last day at the Atlanta camp, he got bit and Carol had been the one that put a pickaxe thru his head. That took some balls for a woman that had been bullied most of her life. And Samara had been truthful about the woman giving up on the idea of her daughter still being alive. It was shriveling her up and the marshal wasn't sure if she would ever recover. Samara then frowned. Her conversation with Carol this morning repeated itself in her mind. The marshal was surprised that she had opened up to the woman, but she couldn't have helped it. Carol looked so pathetic and small that Samara just took pity on her and gave her a straight answer.

Andrea overcame her sister's death and her suicide attempt and finally found her strength in this new world even if it was only for the sake of one's own survival. She was starting to pull her weight around camp that didn't revolve around washing clothes and Samara respected that.

Samara's view on Lori hadn't changed much other than the fact that Samara noticed her being more nauseous these days. The marshal made a point to watch what she was eating; if Mrs. Sheriff could get food poisoning so could she.

Dale had turned from overprotective of Andrea to protective of _all_ his new family. It was just in the old man's nature to care. In a way he was the moral compass of the group which annoyed the marshal at times since his views contradicted with what was supposed to be done logically. Samara wasn't a fan of people that put emotion ahead of reason.

The children…well child of the group had well-put intentions. Samara hadn't spent that much time with Carl since she tried to avoid his sick room and him as much as possible. The marshal _loathed_ seeing children either dying or in pain.

Her view on T-Dog was the same. He was a straightforward guy who was braver than most and not about to step back from a difficult situation. He didn't take anyone's bullshit and had a good head on his shoulders. Samara approved of people like that.

Glenn, while still jumpy and sometimes grating on her nerves, was just as brave as T-Dog. Samara had heard the full story on how he let himself be taken down the well where the walker was and he managed to rope the corpse even under the stressful situation he had been under. That earned him some brownie points.

Shane…Ah, now he was a precarious one. Physically, he was built for this world, mentally he wasn't. Not really. If he had been slowly exposed to it, he would have definitely ended up like her—cold, calm and calculated. But instead he was thrust into it, dealing with situations that his heart and mind wasn't ready for and now his churned up emotions were lashing out. Also, it didn't help that he was the odd man in the group's thinking. Samara wasn't sure how his story was going to end.

She wasn't about to delve into who Grimes was, she'd known from their time driving towards Atlanta. He was a pretty straight-forward guy, after all. Samara had been pondering for the past few days on why she listened to him half the time when she almost never did with anyone else that she didn't concern herself for. Then it hit her like a sack of bricks to the head.

–Her _father_.

He reminded her of her father.

_Oh gods, why didn't I see this sooner?_ It was practically staring right at her!

Same principles. Same no bullshit attitude. Same stern look when she did or said something offensive. Same tolerance for her biting retorts.

Samara groaned. She couldn't believe this…She just projected her father onto the first guy she _precariously_ trusted in this new world. She trusted Grimes, however unlikely that would seem to outsiders. Because she _knew_ he would never leave her behind. Their relationship wasn't based on equality, though. Samara took more than she gave, she knew that. And Rick knew that which probably was what frustrated so.

Well, Samara thought with a sigh, at least she didn't see her husband in him. _That would have been awkward…_

And lastly, Daryl Dixon.

Samara had been rattling her brain to figure him out ever since her stay with the group had been prolonged. He cared for these people, that much was obvious. Somehow they had crawled under his skin and stayed there and, unexpectedly, he didn't seem to mind. Samara was sure that if she threatened one of them, he would be the first to level his weapon at her. He wasn't ruthless; the marshal knew he had the potential, but he chooses not to. It was probably the group that did it, kept whatever darkness he had in him at bay.

_Second chance…_ Was that what he was grasping at?

Samara watched the hunter from beneath her lashes. He was outside his tent on that used folding stool, cleaning up his crossbow and arrows. Immediately, resentment crawled into her throat like bile. Their fight was still fresh in her mind.

She could not forgive him for what he said…his word had been much too close to the truth than she would have liked. Practical reason had been a part of it, but mostly it was better than finding a charred corpse or an undead John. She didn't think she could emotionally survive something like the latter.

So she had been a coward. _Sue me._

The marshal shook her head of these depressing thoughts. She did not want to jump back into that over examined issue. She had emotionally exhausted herself by looking at it from all sides, from in and out, and she begrudgingly came to terms with it.

A wince suddenly appeared, the shouting fest at the house once again passing thru her mind. Gods, she hadn't screamed like that in ages. Not since two years ago with her husband. Samara didn't usually let go of her self-control, it being too precious to her. _That_ and it made her stupid.

_Getting into a fist fight and throwing furniture around_, she groaned, a hand covering her face. She wasn't an angsty teen anymore where that sort of behavior was acceptable since it could be blamed on developing hormones and rebellious tendencies. She was thirty-three years old, for the gods' sakes! _And_ with eight years of Army, no bullshit, discipline along with six years of lawman restraint. That shouldn't have happened!

—It was rather embarrassing and it shot her pride down to ashes.

Her father would be gravely disappointed with her.

But something had just snapped at his words, something deep inside and she had let all that frustration that she had bottled up for the past twenty-four hours spew right onto him.

Then the icing on the cake. Samara felt her lips mold in disgust as she remembered the feeling of grinding against the hick like a bitch in heat. It had been necessary since she realized earlier that the man shied away from physical contact. His expression once she did it...now that had been funny. He looked short of having a heart attack.

But there had been an unwelcome twinge traveling from her stomach downwards as she felt their hips join. It was like a bolt of electricity had passed thru them, making the marshal shiver in delight.

It was that primordial sensation between a man and a woman that has existed ever since the dawn of human kind, Samara thought. And the extended period of time she had been on the dry hadn't helped. She and John hadn't had any physical contact in four months and add the extra three on the road, it had been similar to a junkie getting a taste of heroin after being put thru rehab.

Samara shook her head violently. The last thing she needed was to have _any_ kind of reaction towards _Daryl Dixon_.

With a sigh, Samara's eyes hardened into cold marbles. She wasn't going to patch things up with him, screw what Grimes said. Dixon had been a bastard and a half, and she could not forgive someone who cut her so deeply like that.

What she needed right now was time. Time to lick her wounds and time away from that man. If she was anywhere near him right now, she would kill him.

* * *

**Foot Note:** Poor Daryl…Samara abuses him so much, I'm starting to feel sorry for him. But I guess they're even seeing how Samara gets her ass chewed out by Rick _and_ Daryl. A tooth for a tooth, yeah? Or was it an eye…


	10. Dare to Hope

**Note: **This chapter Samara is gonna have more interaction with the others.

Sorry for not updating. I only noticed today that it's been two weeks since the last post—and that's only because Shelley pointed it out (I probably wouldn't have noticed for another week or so, so thanks). Been busy I guess…that and a lack of motivation to write TWD. I started writing some Sengoku Basara fic and I got too engrossed in it.

After this chapter I'm gonna need some time to write for 'Ring of Fire'. I only have a quarter of chapter 11 written, so it's gonna take a while to update. I want to have 12 written out so I don't feel behind on the fic.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

The moment Samara left her tent in the morning, she was greeted to the sight of the hunter riding away into the forest.

Tch. _Running away now?_

The marshal was almost tempted to follow him and shoot the horse while he was atop it just to piss him off. But her back and hand were killing her and she reasoned that it would be better for her to take a day off and recuperate. Then she'll shoot the horse with him atop it!

Samara slowly made her way to the center of the camp, Alistair following her obediently since she had his meal in her hand. She had actually let the dog sleep inside with her last night. She had needed something to comfort her frayed temper and, strangely, stroking his fur always managed to do that. It was the repetition, she concluded. Since dissembling and cleaning her guns was not at hand, Alistair was the closest outlet.

She spotted T-Dog at the cooking pit, frying eggs and ham on a large pan. Her mouth practically watered at the sight of real breakfast. The man looked up once he noticed the sun's light being blocked from him and saw the marshal's frown first.

"Left you behind, huh?" Making his own assumptions for her cranky disposition.

Samara glared at him, before her eyes slid to the pan. "Is that for you or for all?"

"For some." A wooden spoon snapped against willowy fingers once they came too close to the golden, puffy chow. "Wait your turn."

With a huff, Samara picked up a plastic plate and left him to his cooking. The marshal's brow twitched when she heard him chuckle.

Stopping at the picnic table, she plopped down on the bench and placed the plate on the ground. Opening the dry dog food bag she dumped a portion onto the plate, some small bits bouncing off and onto the ground. Alistair didn't seem to mind as he dug into his chow.

Samara plucked her cigarette pack and lighter from her pant pocket. Lighting one up, she took a deep inhale and reveled in the nicotine sensation.

Placing her chin on her open palm, she observed her surroundings. It was a lazy day, the heat having accelerated back to its usual high temperature. One would think that yesterday's cold rain had been a dream.

Speaking of dreams, she noticed the lack of them. Up until now, she had been constantly having nightmares—about her husband usually. That one time a few days ago with the nursery, that had been a first. Probably caused by Carl's situation. But since then, nothing. Not one nightmare.

Samara hadn't slept this well in _very_ long time. It felt good not waking up sweating like a pig or with a soundless scream escaping her clogged throat.

Olive eyes slid towards the front door of the Greene's house once it opened and Lori and Carl came out. The boy was moving at a snail's pace, but he seemed alright.

A plate of scrambled eggs along with utensils was placed in front of the marshal, breaking her out of her musings.

"Breakfast's ready."

Samara watched as T-Dog took a seat opposite her with his own plate in hand.

"Since when did he get on his feet?" She pointed her cigarette towards the boy.

"Yesterday. He's getting better, just so you know."

Stubbing her cigarette on the table—which brought out a hairy eyeball from the man opposite her—Samara was about to dig in when she paused and gave him a wary look. "Are you going to hit me again?"

He smirked. "Only if you try stealing my food."

The marshal then ate her portion in silence, not feeling the need to strike up a conversation again. T-Dog didn't seem to mind as he himself was not the talkative type.

"You know," He started halfway into their meal. "I don't know what happened between you and Daryl yesterday. He wasn't too chatty about it and Rick was rather vague on the whole ordeal. But don't you think you should cut him some slack?"

Samara stopped mid chew and rolled her eyes exasperatedly. Whatever good mood she had felt suddenly vanished at the mention of _him_. "Gods, is everyone on the Dixon wagon these days?"

"Trust me, I don't think there's anyone here, other than Carol, that hasn't thought of punching him at least once. But the man's changed." The man stopped eating his food and gave her a sincere gaze, flashes of the highway passing thru his mind. "Never thought I would see the day a Dixon would save my life…Guess stranger things can happen."

"Are you telling me that he's a saint now?" She deadpanned.

"Hardly. He's still an asshole at times." His laugh was cut short and his lips settled into a grim line. "But you ain't any better either."

Samara gave him a flat stare.

The man shrugged. "I'm just telling it how I see it."

"You barely know me." She prodded her food viciously.

He nodded. "True, but you haven't exactly been subtle. You think I don't remember you aiming a gun at me back on the highway?" He knew now without a doubt that she would have shot him if he had been bit. "That coupled with all the manipulative shit I heard you do, bargaining for guns and all that. Damn girl, it doesn't take much to figure you out."

Her appetite suddenly vanished, feeling as another lecture was headed her way on her conduct. "Oh gods, do you want me to apologize?" Why did everyone find her behavior so repulsive? Was thinking and looking out for oneself so alien to these people that it made _her_ the freak? Gods, it seemed that throwing oneself in front of a mass of walkers was the only way to gain these people's liking.

"Didn't say that." He shrugged. "You can't help who you are, but you can change. 'And I will give them one heart, and a new spirit I will put within them. I will remove the heart of stone from their flesh and give them a heart of flesh', Ezekiel 11:19."

Samara just stared at him in a faintly disturbed fashion. "…If you start preaching, I'm leaving."

T-Dog just laughed and waved her off. "I was just emphasizing my point."

"I used to be like you, you know?" At her blatant skepticism, the man explained. "I _hated_ Daryl. Back in Atlanta, he was just another racist prick that couldn't hold a conversation without insulting someone. I used to dream of the day Shane finally got fed up with his and his brother's bullshit and drove them out of the camp."

"But then his brother got out of the picture and he just…mellowed down." His voice lowered as it was an uncomfortable memory he was speaking of—that day on the rooftop when he dropped the key and left Merle to a pack of walkers. "I left him behind, you know? Merle."

So that was his name_…What a hick name_, Samara thought dryly.

"Is this the other half of the Atlanta story?"

"You don't know it?" At the shake of her head, T-Dog put down his fork and recalled that day. How Daryl almost killed him when he heard that he left his brother behind because of a mistake. How they went back looking for him only to find his severed hand left cuffed to the roof and a trail of blood leading to a window out into the street. T-Dog didn't recount the meeting with the Vatos, he didn't think the marshal would care much for it.

"He cut off his own hand?" Her eyes were wide with astonishment and nausea churned in her stomach. It took some serious balls to saw off a body part, not to mention without any medication to numb it out.

"Merle was a real shithead, worse than Daryl, but he was tough." That was probably the only supposed good quality he had had. Still has, if Daryl's belief was real.

"So, you're saying that Daryl's asshole streak was influenced by his brother?" That's the final conclusion Samara came to out of this discussion.

"That's what _I_ believe." T-Dog swallowed his portion of eggs before continuing. "I mean yeah, he's got his own, but I think most of it was because of Merle." That and the way the older Dixon treated the younger. He was always cruel, even more so when he was high.

"So because Daryl saved your life, now you don't hate him anymore?" This conversation was going in a direction she did not want to. T-Dog was talking about change of heart. She couldn't just do that at a snap of her fingers or a few words from a man she barely knew.

"I don't hate him, but I don't love the guy." His expression turned thoughtful. "I guess you could say that we found common ground. I suggest you two find yours, cause trust me, it makes life easier."

At the back of her head, she remembered Shane telling her something of the same nature. She snorted as she started eating again. "Our common ground lasted for a total of fifteen minutes and then _he_ ruined it. I tried."

"Did you?"

"Yes." _Not really_.

T-Dog watched her closely but saw no flaws in her mask and so had no choice but to take her up on her words, although there was a part of him that knew she wasn't being honest. While her actions were brutally frank, her words weren't always.

"If you say so."

They lapsed back into silence after that and Samara was grateful for it. She's had enough of their Dixon related conversation. She couldn't believe that even T-Dog was attempting to reach out to her about the man. The marshal wondered when Carol would approach her since she seemed to be the closest to Dixon.

All this pressure from the others was frustrating. She did not want to concede to it and she will _not_. They could all gang up on her for all and she still wouldn't budge an inch.

"Uh…Mrs. Samara?" A quiet, hesitant voice made the table's human and animal occupants raise their heads. Beth, the younger of the Greene girls was not a meter away from them flanked by her older sister Maggie.

"Don't call me that, kid. I'm not that old."

"Sorry." The petit blonde gave her a small smile. "My dad told us that we should find you for gun trainin'."

"Did he now?" An unconvinced brow rose. "Because I heard that your boyfriend went against your father's wishes last time. Can't help but be cautious."

"No, our father was the one that suggested it." Maggie intervened and placed her hands on her hips, her chin jutting out defiantly. "So, can you teach us?"

Samara internally snickered at the woman's haughty attitude. _Younglings..._

She nodded nonetheless. It was a good sign; Hershel was finally starting to reach out to her. After this she was going to take it slowly with them, starting with the sisters. They were the majority in the old man's house and having three women gang up on you is not a pleasant experience. If Samara could get them to trust her, she was in.

"We're actually going to the shooting range in about an hour." T-Dog said after swallowing his last bite. "You can all tag along."

"Great." Maggie nodded before motioning her sister to head to the house and get ready. "We'll see you then."

T-Dog watched them go before turning on the marshal with an inquiring look. "Making friends with the old man, huh?"

Samara's brow rose, a perilous gleam in her eyes. "You got a problem with that?"

He shook his head, attempting to hide the incredulous smirk that threatened to show.

* * *

It took over an hour for everyone to get ready and drive up to the shooting range that Shane had put up days ago. Even the sheriff's son was with them. How that happened Samara had no idea. Some arm twisting and puppy dog eyes were most likely involved.

Shane, Rick and Samara were the instructors, each with their batch of people to train. Samara had taken the Greene girls and Jimmy and was watching the firepower display with bored eyes. The majority of them couldn't hit a bottle or tin can if their life depended on them. She had to rearrange the sister's stances and adjust their aims, but even then Samara knew it would take some time until they were adequate.

"They're crap."

The marshal announced suddenly to the two Kentucky lawmen. They were a pacing behind the line of people, observing each person's progress. Andrea was the only one who seemed to be progressing and she was _loving_ _it_ judging from the wide shit-eating grin on her face.

"They have time to get better." Rick said as his eyes went back to his son. T-Dog was with him, inspecting his handle of a handgun.

"I don't think coming back here every few days is a good idea." Her eyes slid across their surroundings, vigil of any walking corpses. "It's bad enough that you people are making all this noise. _Repeatedly_ doing it is just short of suicidal."

"You're worryin' too much again." While Rick knew her worries were viable, there was nothing he could do about it. The group needed to learn how to defend themselves and blades wouldn't always work. He had staved off the gun training for far too long and there was no excuse this time.

"One of these days sheriff, you are going to say 'Hey, maybe I was wrong. _Maybe_ Samara was right'."

Rick shook his head with a concealed smirk. It seemed that yesterday's talk hadn't affected her mood around him too much. "Even if I had one of those moments, I probably wouldn't say it out loud."

"Wouldn't want to ruin your image, huh oh-mighty-leader?"

The sheriff's lips quirked for a second before he went back to his survey.

The deputy watched the two with interest. Shane and Samara were closer in nature and they didn't get along. Whenever they talked it felt like they were juggling with grenades. And after the saloon it was worse since the woman avoided remaining alone with him at any moment. But her and Rick…they were polar opposites and despite them not actually trusting one another, they still managed to get along.

He didn't understand the relationship between these two, what actually connected them. Why Rick let her stay with them even after her obvious disregard for all of them. Now _that_ was something that had Shane spinning in circles and Rick was hesitant to disclose his thoughts on the matter.

"Not everyone is bad. Andrea's doin' just fine." Shane motioned to the blond who was shooting the center of the O in the 'No Trespassers' sign.

"I say she's got the hang of it." Rick said with a smirk.

Samara gave him a deadpan stare. "Even a child can shoot motionless targets." Her point was made as Carl shot a bottle and let out a loud whoop.

"Guess it's time for the advanced class." Shane said as he departed from the duo and headed for the woman in question.

"Daryl left without you." Rick said suddenly, out of everyone's earshot. "He even took a horse without permission from Hershel."

The marshal gasped mockingly. "Horse thievery? Dear me, someone call the police."

Rick mentally rolled his eyes, before appraising her closely. "I see you haven't put much thought into repairin' your relationship with him."

"You would be correct." She then grimaced. "And don't call it a _relationship_. It makes it seem more than it is."

Rick left her to her crabbiness in favor of watching his son. Carl seemed so proud of his accomplishment of shooting bottles and tin cans off the fence. A few months ago he was proud of kicking a soccer ball into a goalpost and earning points for his team. And now he was learning how to shoot a gun so he wouldn't remain defenseless…to kill and not be killed.

How far the world has changed and they along with it, Rick thought with sudden melancholy.

It wasn't the first time his thoughts revolved around what would happen to his son when he grew up. A question always nagged at him in particular and had his breathing pick up. Would he grow up and be like him, Shane or…His gaze slid to the woman beside him and his lips involuntarily downturned.

He did not want this fate for Carl. It was not fair that he had to grow up in this world, surrounded by death at every turn. How long would it take for him to lose his humanity? To revert to baser instincts and wants? Rick wasn't always going to be there beside him and neither was Lori. One day they would both die and Carl will be on his own, and what then?

—The thought made him swallow the choking knot in his throat.

Rick remained unaware that the woman beside him was watching him carefully, cataloging all the emotions that ranged across his face with a hint of worry.

Rick's thoughts then ventured towards the baby. How it would impact his family's life, the group's life. They were almost halfway thru September. If his calculations were correct, his wife would deliver somewhere around April or May next year. She would need medicine, vitamins, better accommodations, more food, supervision of the baby's growth and a doctor most importantly, one that wasn't a veterinarian.

But without a hospital how were they supposed to know everything was alright? The infant could die while still in the womb and they would have no knowledge of it, not until Lori's date was due. What if was born sickly? They would be at a loss again without a doctor to treat the condition. Could his family even survive a loss like that?

And when he or she was born, what then? He had pleaded again with Hershel yesterday to reconsider. They couldn't leave, not anymore. He could not let his pregnant wife travel on the road with no roof over her head and dangers at all corners. They needed the protection of the farm now more than ever.

This baby—_His_ baby would make things right. Between him and Lori. He just knew.

—This was their second chance.

But Lori…When Carl was born she had to do a C-section since natural birth was dangerous for her.

His breaths were audible at this point.

"Stop." A stern husky voice suddenly broke the panicked haze that enveloped him.

"What?" He questioned in bewilderment.

Samara was looking him with disturbed eyes. "Whatever is weighting on you so heavily, stop thinking about it. You're making me worry and I don't like it." Her eyes then traveled from his face to his hands and up again. "And you're making yourself sick."

Rick was only now aware that his hands were shaking and that cold sweat poured down his forehead, not to mention the queasiness that bore holes in his stomach. He didn't even want to know what his face conveyed.

"Do you…want to talk about it?"

Her sincere concern had Rick slightly startled and his lip corner twitched with insecurity. He was not sure if he could speak with Samara about matters such as these. He did not need to hear her cynicism or her logic on why _not_ to have a child at this point. He was pretty sure that she would be in agreement with Lori's initial idea of aborting the baby.

—But he did answer her truthfully.

"I can't."

As he did not explain further, Samara nodded uncertainly and went back to observing the others. That was one of aspects he liked about her. If he didn't want to talk, she didn't push, but let him open up on his own time, on his own terms.

Rick needed a few minutes to regain his composure and lock away his thoughts deep inside. This was not the time to deal with those issues since he was certain he would have a panic attack or worse, a breakdown. And the others most certainly didn't need to see that.

Before Rick could leave Samara's side, a subject came to the forefront of his mind. One that he had wanted to speak with her about. One that he had been putting off for far too long.

"Samara…there's somethin' we need to discuss." A grave look crystallized his blue orbs. "This is important. It affects _all_ of us."

The marshal watched him closely before nodding slowly. Her gaze then slid over his shoulders to the others and Rick understood her question.

"Not here. Later, when there's no one around."

* * *

An hour later they had left the shooting range and headed back to camp. Out of the Greene sisters, Beth surprisingly was the most adept at shooting a gun. Next was Maggie then Jimmy and finally Patricia who seemed more scared of the weapon than anything. At the end of the session, the marshal felt a slight pang of pride at the sight of their accomplishments. For greenhorns that never touched a gun in their lives, they did alright.

Once at the farm, Samara had thought that the sheriff would approach her about the 'important business' they needed to discuss. But instead, the marshal was left to her own devises.

She was fine with that. Her body was still recuperating from yesterday's activities and she needed to rest. Swallowing two painkillers, she settled back in her tent and picked up on her reading. Alistair entered the tent several minutes after her and curled along her thigh for a nap.

Samara had observed the dog's recuperation and he was showing signs of progression. Hershel had mentioned to her that it would take about a week for Alistair to get better, but since the little excursion into town it would probably take a few more days before she could bring him along in the forest.

Samara had no idea how much time had passed when she heard Andrea—who was atop the RV as the lookout—yell walker.

Without missing a beat, Samara threw the book aside and picked up her machete. Her abrupt actions startled the dog and he ran out of the tent, thinking the worse for him at the sight of the blade. Samara ignored Alistair's odd behavior and rushed outside. The men were running around the camp, gathering machetes and other weapons they could use.

"I bet I can nail it from here." The marshal heard the blonde say with a hint of excitement.

"No, Andrea." Rick waved her off when she picked up a rifle. "Put the gun down."

"You'd best let us handle this." Shane shouted to her as he picked up a pickaxe and ran towards the walker, T-Dog beside him with a baseball bat and Glen with a machete.

Rick tried to stop Shane, telling him that Hershel wanted to deal with walkers, but he would have none of it. With a curse, the sheriff ran inside the RV and came back not two seconds later with his Colt.

As he passed Samara, he heard her speak clearly. "Don't shoot it."

"I know." He said as he continued running.

Samara did not follow them. Four men were overkill for one walker and instead she opted to observe from a distance. Also, the way Andrea kept fidgeting and gripping the rifle put her on edge.

Alistair finally came out of his hiding and stopped next to his owner, peering over the field with perked ears.

The group was halfway to the walker when the blonde woman laid flat on her belly atop the RV and aimed the rifle again, her eye peering thru the scope.

"Don't even think about it."

Andrea's closed eye opened and gazed down to the marshal who was giving her a reprimanding glower.

"Andrea, I think—I think you should listen." Dale said as he watched Rick and the others approach the walker from his position on the RV ladder. There was a feeling in his gut that told him that something was _wrong_.

"I can take this." She spat a tad irritated at both of them. After the admirable gun training today, she really wanted to exercise on undead, moving targets.

"Don't you remember what I said on the highway?" Samara took a step closer to the RV, her grip on the machete tightening. A fleeting idea came and went that consisted of throwing the blade at the woman. Alistair lowered his head as he watched the two women apprehensively.

The blonde scoffed as she readied the rifle and target the corpse. "It's one bullet. It won't bring an army."

Green eyes narrowed threateningly. "Listen, you dumb blonde. You shoot that gun, I'll—"

Andrea tuned her out five seconds ago and pulled the trigger.

_Bang._

The trio watched as the walker went down like a sack of potatoes.

"See? Told ya I'd get it." A grin spread over her lips and her blue eyes gleamed proudly.

Samara was about to throw a rather foul rant Andrea's way on the use of guns on the property and attracting attention of other walkers, but her words died in her mouth when Rick started yelling in despair.

"No! No!"

The accomplished grin on Andrea's face slid right off and her brows furrowed in confusion.

"Oh no." Dale said hollowly as his gut feeling exponently grew. In that moment, he just _knew_ that that person had not been a walker.

He slid off the ladder and started running towards the other. Samara, intrigued and surprised that a man his age could run that fast, followed him with Alistair right on her trail. The marshal heard rather than saw Andrea descend the ladder and run right after them.

A distant male shout from Hershel and a female yell from Lori reached their ears, but they ignored them and kept running.

It could only be a man, Samara thought. Otherwise the sheriff wouldn't have reacted like that. But…his yell had been rather distressed. He would never be _that_ upset over a stranger. Unless—

Samara's eyes widened as she got closer to the men.

"Oh my God!" By this point Andrea outran Dale, Samara and the dog and stopped a short distance of the small group. Her hands flew to her mouth in shock. "Oh my God!"

Samara finally reached them and laid her eyes on the sight of Andrea's actions. Daryl was carried by the two Kentucky lawmen, seemingly dead or unconscious, his head on Rick's shoulder. He was absolutely filthy, covered in mud and dirt, and there was blood painted around his mouth and splattered on his chin. There was also blood trickling down from the left side of his temple—courtesy of Andrea—down his face and neck and into his shirt, and a large crimson patch colored the left side of his abdomen with a makeshift binding across it. And—

Samara's brain did a double take.

_What the fuck?_

…_Are those ears around his neck?_

"Is he dead?" Andrea finally asked, her voice shaky with fright.

"Unconscious. You just grazed him." Rick said as he didn't stop from his stride. They needed to get Daryl to Hershel right now.

"But look at him! What the hell happened?" Glenn motioned to the ears with wide, troubled eyes. "He's wearing ears!"

Rick shook his head having no idea on how to answer something like that. He was also rather disturbed by Daryl's new addition to his wardrobe, not to mention the shock he received when the bullet hit him. He had really thought that in that moment the hunter was dead. Thank God Andrea wasn't a good shot yet or otherwise they would have had another tragedy on their hands.

"Let's just keep that to ourselves."

Rick's eyes then widened when he saw his wife and the Greene's approach. He didn't need Hershel seeing this. With a yank he ripped the necklace of Daryl's neck. The sheriff's eyes connected with Samara's, who was eyeing the hunter with strange emotion, and he threw the ears at her before she even realized it. By reflex she caught them and her face contorted into disgust once they were in her palm.

"Keep them out of sight." He told her lowly as his eyes slid forward to where Hershel was.

"Thanks." She smiled tersely as she pocketed the ears.

"Guys!" T-Dog's raised voice cut thru the tension. Everyone turned around to look at him and they were left in various degrees of astonishment as he held an object out for everyone to see.

—It was a doll.

"Isn't this Sophia's?"

* * *

Rick and Shane had brought Daryl back into the house and placed him in a spare bedroom room while Hershel had shouted to Patricia to bring him his kit. Once she did, the older man shut the door behind him and the others were left in the dark.

The marshal along with Lori had waited outside the door, while Dale and T-Dog were in the living room with Carl. Andrea was outside unable to step foot in the house, not after what she almost did. Carol was also in the living room clutching the doll to her chest, not speaking to anyone. Alistair was beside her, his furry head on her thigh, watching her rocking motions with sad eyes. Patricia and Beth were seated next to her, trying their best to comfort the mother. Maggie was in the kitchen with Glenn, both speaking in hushed voices.

"You still think Sophia's dead, don't you? Even with the doll."

Lori's voice woke Samara from her vigil state. She had been listening to the happenings in the room when she was abruptly cut off.

"Why do you ask when you already know the answer." Samara said offhandedly as she was already attuning her hearing back to the room.

"I just can't understand your way of thinkin'." Lori said from her crouched place on the floor, her eyes on her interlaced hands instead of the marshal.

"I advise you not to." Samara's brow furrowed. She wasn't here to converse, but to listen. "It's a dark place."

Lori said nothing after that and Samara internally sighed in relief. The last thing she wanted right now was to strike up a conversation with the sheriff's wife. Ever since the high-school incident, the woman had made it her duty to avoid Samara at all times and to equally keep her son away.

The marshal had an inkling that the woman didn't like her very much…

In a way, Samara did not want to be here. Just because the redneck was injured didn't mean it dampened her bruised heart. A part of her felt pleasure for his beaten up state, but the larger part…she did not delve into that. It was dangerous foreign territory. But she stayed put since she knew that the moment the sheriff came out he'll come searching for her. She was the only other tracker they had and he would most likely want her to go to the doll's last location.

Samara's interest perked up when she heard the redneck's gruff voice. Dixon began explaining the reason for his state. The horse he was on had gotten spooked and threw him off the saddle. Unfortunately for him, they had been right near the edge of the creek and he had tumbled down landing right on the stone and onto one of his arrows.

Samara's lips quirked. _Talk about falling on your own sword…_

Daryl explained further that he attempted to climb back up only to slip and fall right back into the creek, hitting his head along the way. He woke up to find a walker chewing on his boot and another gaining up on him. He destroyed the walkers and found the strength to climb up and out of the creek.

At the end of his story, Samara was begrudgingly impressed. The man had been thru quite the ordeal and he still managed to climb a five feet earth wall.

When Hershel wondered out loud how Grimes' group managed to have lived for so long after all the mistakes they did, Samara couldn't help herself. An amused snort unconsciously escaped her throat, earning a rather chastising look from Lori.

The door to the room opened and the two lawmen exited. Lori quickly rose to her feet and embraced her husband. The man seemed to sag in her hug before the tension returned full force as Shane began speaking.

"I hate to say it, but I'm with Hershel on this one." He folded the map and stared at Rick with grave eyes. "Can't keep goin' out there, not after this."

Rick gave his friend a terse look. "You'd quit now? Daryl just risked his life to bring back the first hard evidence we've had."

"That is one way to look at it." Shane nodded apathetically. "The way I see it, Daryl almost died today for a _doll_."

The sheriff's brow furrowed, a faint look of disgust darkening his blues. "Yeah, I know how you see it."

"He's right." Samara suddenly spoke as Grimes was about to end the conversation. He turned to her and for a second, Samara thought she saw a trace of upset on his face before it quickly disappeared. Shane was in equal state of surprise as he did not anticipate her to side with him.

The marshal shrugged. "That doll could have been there for over a week or maybe it got washed miles down the stream."

"You don't know that." Rick's eyes narrowed.

"Neither do you." The woman took a more firmer stance, trying to make the sheriff understand. "Look, kids don't leave their toys behind without a good reason. As in running for their lives."

"Right." Shane intervened eagerly, making Samara's brow twitch. She _hated_ being interrupted. "For all we know, Sophia dropped the doll the day she got lost."

"Point is," Samara gave Shane a disapproving glower. "_If_ she's alive, she's probably somewhere we won't find her. Except for that abandoned house and the creek, which by the way isn't exactly a strong ground to base anything by, we have nothing else. Not even a direction. It is pointless."

"You don't have a say in this." Lori interjected as she sternly crossed her arms. Her chest was heaving with suppressed anger. "You're not part of our group. This does not concern you."

The marshal gave her an irritated look as one would gaze upon a pestering fly. "I'm well aware of that. I'm just giving you my opinion."

"I think everyone is aware of your opinions, and nobody wants to hear them."

"I don't give a damn if you feel offended by my words. I'm just laying down the facts that you _all_ obviously don't want to hear."

"Enough." Rick raised his palms when Lori opened her mouth to retort. That didn't sit well with his wife judging from the irritated look thrown at him. "You two fightin' does not help. And I really don't want to hear this right now."

He then turned to the scowling marshal and made sure she understood his next words. "You and me are headin' out tomorrow mornin' to the creek."

After a beat, Samara conceded knowing that she could not escape from this. The sheriff was capable of tying her up and dragging her along if he had to.

With heavy and brisk steps Rick headed towards the living room, leaving them behind. Samara wasted no time and left Lori and Shane's presence. They were the last people she wanted to be around right now. She briefly contemplated on the fact that she now had a third person on the 'shit list'. Shane, Daryl and now Lori.

Samara really hoped that that list wouldn't lengthen. She neither had the time nor the patience for disputes.

The marshal passed Grimes that was explaining the events to the others and headed outside, Alistair right on her heels. Andrea was on the porch steps looking over the field with vacant eyes, but at the sound of the door opening she almost jumped out of her skin.

"How is he?" She scrambled to her feet, feeling her heart beat uncomfortably faster.

"Alive and talking." Samara along with Alistair descended the stairs.

Andrea let out a loud breath in relief and her palms covered her face. The weight on her shoulders seemed to lighten by the second as they sagged tiredly.

"I'm sorry." The blonde called out as the Native passed her. Andrea took a deep breath and continued. "You were right. I shouldn't have pulled the trigger."

"At least you only grazed him." The marshal shrugged as she plucked her cigarette pack and lighter from her pant pocket. Lighting one up, she eyed the blonde. "Andrea, I know you're eager to show your skills but you need to be patient."

"I'm not the patient type." She grumbled begrudgingly as she sat back on the porch.

"No shit." Samara exhaled smoke thru her nostrils.

Alistair moved and settled on his belly next to Andrea's feet. A pale hand came atop his head and scratched behind his ears. The dog enjoyed the attention as he leaned into her palm.

"I just…don't want to be useless anymore." Her voice was far off as she stared at the monotone fur.

Ringlets of smoke breezed over Samara's head. Her green eyes stared at the woman hesitantly before a sigh escaped her and she sat on the lowest stair with her feet propped on the wooden plank and her back resting on the railing. Samara wasn't even aware of the way her body and mind attuned to the blonde's disposition. To position herself in a certain way to create a comfortable atmosphere so Andrea could continue talking without being disturbed. It was her marshal training propelling her. Interrogation, hearing confessions, talking down violent idiots had been part of her job not so long ago (the last part, she freely admitted that she wasn't good at). It was second nature for her to listen.

"I've been useless since the virus broke out. I should have learned sooner how to handle a gun. If I did, I could have saved my sister. I could have shot that walker before it even got near her. But instead I just sat around for months, waitin' for the cavalry to roll in and help us all." Andrea shook her head despondently. "Fuckin' stupid."

It seemed that even now she wasn't passed the mourning. Andrea had probably just buried it deep down and filled the void with activities, trying to stave her mind off it. Too bad it never really works.

"You believe it's your fault she died."

Andrea's blonde brows furrowed in thought. "I'm the older sister. I'm the one that was supposed to protect Amy. My father…he died when my sister was still a teenager. Bad heart, you know. He made me promise to look after her, _always_. To keep her safe." Her grip on the dog's fur tightened making Alistair squirm underneath her hand. "And I failed."

"And the worst part was that we were just starting to get along again. We had a rift a few years ago. Amy left for college and I was busy with my cases and we just…lost contact. I was just beginning to bond with my sister when that…_piece of shit_ bit her." Andrea finished with a sad exhale.

"I never had a brother or a sister, so I don't really know how a bond like that works." Samara inhaled deeply as she was about to open up again. First had been with Carol yesterday and now with Andrea today. She really _was_ getting soft. "But I know what it feels like to blame yourself for a loved one's death, especially when it's not your fault. It's irrational and painful as hell, but you can't blame yourself for this Andrea, no matter how much you want to. It will eat you up and spit you out a gnarled mess."

"And as cliché as this may sound, shit _really_ does just happen. And there's nothing you or anyone else can do to stop it." Samara had stopped believing some years ago that there was a motive to happenings. Death, tragedy, sickness. It was all a series of random events, devoid of reason. We were the ones that attached explanations to it so we could make ourselves feel better. So the world wouldn't be so desolate.

Andrea's grip on the dog loosened (Alistair, disgruntled, ran off once she released him) and her blue eyes stared at the marshal hawkishly. Her gaze then slowly lowered to the hand holding the cigarette where a wedding band was glaring at her from the light of the sun. The blonde made her own deductions from there.

"You're just a guidebook on advice, huh?" Andrea spoke softly, her eyes never leaving the wedding band.

"Hardly. Just speaking out of experience." She chuckled sadly, puffs of smoke escaping with each laugh. "And as one that has been there, I advise you to cut that shit out effective immediately. Otherwise you're going to end up like those undead bastards out there," _Like me_, "Just aimlessly walking around—"

"Eatin' people?" Andrea said sardonically.

Samara paused and then shrugged. "Well your taste buds will be shot to shit, depression does that. So you won't have to worry."

"Yeah, I heard human flesh tastes like chicken." Andrea nodded seriously before she started shaking in laughter.

Samara couldn't stave off the blonde's infectious laughter and smiled in good nature, crow's feet appearing at the corner of her eyes. It hurt her cheeks to smile. Felt like years had passed since she'd last done it.

Andrea finally stopped laughing and shook her head to dispel the good mood. "I'll try to keep your advice in mind."

The two women remained in comfortable silence as each was swallowed up by their own memories—memories of happier times, of normal times shared with people that were once alive and safe.

The door to the house opened and both women turned to see Dale exit the building. He seemed tired and relieved at the same time, which added years to his already aged features.

"Samara, Hershel wants to speak with you." He pointed his thumb behind him.

With a last drag from her cigarette, the marshal tossed it and walked back in the house, the last remnants of her cigarette billowing behind her. She found the old man in the kitchen, now devoid of Maggie and Glenn. They probably scampered off in different directions once Maggie's father was in the area. The man was wiping his hands with a towel and eyeing her thoughtfully when she walked in.

"You said that if I ever needed anythin' I should ask you."

Samara nodded as she leaned against the counter, eager to gain the old man's trust.

"My horse. I need it brought back." He said as he placed the towel back on the hook.

Samara's brow twitched fractionally.

Shit_,_ just what she needed. Run around the forest looking for a goddamn horse.

"Fine." Samara dislodged from the counter and headed back to the exit. She was going to need to talk to the redneck as much as she hated that thought. After that she needed some provisions, probably for till tomorrow. It was already four o'clock and the sun would go down in four hours. She really hoped that she'll find that animal in time before nightfall. Samara was not relishing the thought of spending the night in the woods and like hell she'll get on the back of that crazed horse.

Before she left for his room, she heard the farmer thank her to which Samara answered with a silent nod. Once her face was turned away from him, she rolled her eyes.

_I really hate horses…_

* * *

Samara was frozen in front of the door, one hand razed to knock and the other harshly gripping the terrain map.

She _really_ did not want to speak with the hunter, it was too soon. But she didn't have a choice. The marshal had already asked Grimes where the location was but she needed a more detailed rapport that only could be understood by those like her and Dixon.

With great effort she knocked and gave the hunter a few seconds before entering. The man was lying on the bed, the covers up to his chin like a child. He was holding a bag of ice to his forehead and his head was turned to the door, but once he saw his visitor a dark shadow settled over his expression.

"What the hell do you want?"

Samara sneered. "Well, hello to you too."

Daryl snorted and turned back to face the window, dismissing her.

Suppressing the urge to hurl something at him (preferably the lamp on the nightstand), she crossed the room to the chair by his bedside, aware of his eyes following her. Sitting on the piece of furniture she faced him with a serious expression. She was here on business nothing else and she would try to keep it at that.

"I need you to describe the location where the horse threw you off."

The man appraised her before speaking. "You're gonna go after it."

"The old man asked me to find his horse." She unfolded the map and settled it next to the hunter. "You know, the one _you_ lost." And the one she had to retrieve because of his stupidity.

Daryl rolled his eyes, but begrudgingly described the location. The site wasn't that far away and it was close to areas they had searched so it wouldn't take more than two hours to get there if she ran, Samara calculated. Dixon explained the terrain and what landmarks she had to look for, and then pointed out the direction the horse ran off.

Once finished, the marshal folded the map and stared at his bandages cannily. Daryl immediately went on the defense already knowing what was coming.

"You are one stupid bastard."

"I was wonderin' when you'd start." His eyes narrowed to slits, his voice lowering a few octaves.

She leaned back in the chair, her lips contorting in distaste. "A horse? Really?"

His blues popped open with a glare. "Like you didn't ride one."

"At least mine didn't throw me off _and_ it was offered to me, I didn't steal it." Her chin tilted up and a small condescending smirk appeared. "Is permission a foreign word in your already short vocabulary?"

Daryl didn't need this right now, he just wanted to sleep and forget the whole day. His head was throbbing something fierce and his whole body was in pain. Her berating voice just added to the ache.

"Leave." He spat at her angrily.

Samara scoffed and rose to her feet. "Gladly."

Daryl shook his head in revulsion when she closed the door more loudly than necessary, no doubt to aggravate him.

_Wretched woman…_


End file.
